Arms of the Kraken
by ScottishMongol
Summary: Quellon is given a second chance after his death in the Battle of the Mander. Can he lead the Ironborn down the path to peace and prosperity, or will the Old Ways triumph? On hiatus, but what is dead may never die.
1. Quellon I

Quellon I

 _Oh, gods, no, not like this_ , Quellon thought as he felt his life slipping away from him.

 _There's still too much to do_.

Why, oh why had he let his sons talk him into this foolhardy raid against the Reach? Now the arrow in his gut would spell the end of him. Quellon grasped at the maester's robes, trying to hold onto something, anything that would keep him from slipping into the darkness.

He couldn't leave the Iron Islands to his sons, not after he had invested so much in repairing their relations with the greenlanders. Quellon had almost succeeded, too, but Balon would squander that, Quellon could see it now. The boy had grown into a bitter, proud man, and Quellon's other sons were no better. Victarion was a good warrior but had no thoughts of his own, Euron was cunning but cruel, and Aeron too brash and eager for glory.

 _Oh, Drowned God, please, if I live, I'll set things right. I'll make the Iron Islands great again, I swear to you..._

But the darkness closed over his head like a wave. Quellon sank into the darkness...

But still, he felt. He was floating, surrounded by nothingness. It felt like being under water, but there was no light to be seen.

If this was the Drowned God's hall, Quellon Greyjoy was singularly unimpressed. He looked up, wherever that was.

He saw a light. He swam towards it, arms and legs thrashing wildly. As he felt himself move towards the surface, he felt his lungs begin to burn. Panic gripped him.

 _No, don't let me drown, not when I'm so close!_

He broke the surface. Light was everywhere, blinding him...

"My lord?"

The deck of a ship moved beneath his feet. He heard the creaking of ropes and the crash of waves, and distantly men shouting orders to one another.

"My lord, did you hear me?"

He raised a hand to block the bright light, and saw a hand younger than his own, but still calloused by years of wielding oars and axes alike. As the light faded, he saw the deck of a ship, ropes...and the distant coast of the green land.

"I said your father has died."

"My father?" Quellon asked, hearing himself speak a different voice than his own. And as he recognized the voice, he knew what the answer would be.

"Yes. Lord Quellon Greyjoy is dead. You are now Lord Balon Greyjoy, Lord Reaver of Pyke, and Lord Paramount of the Iron Islands."


	2. Quellon II

Quellon II

Among the houses of the Iron Islands, the strangest were the Farwynds of Lonely Light. They were said to be skinchangers, which tales said were able to inhabit the bodies of animals such as sea lions, walruses, and spotted whales. Quellon had heard the tales as a child and wondered if the animal's spirit still dwelt in the body, and if it did, did it resist the new owner? Would it eventually submit, or did it eventually reach a balance with the human sharing its mind?

Quellon now knew the answer.

 _Father, for the last time, why have you ordered us back to the Iron Islands?_ the voice of Balon Greyjoy echoed in his head. Their head. Even now that the day was almost over, Quellon was not sure whose body this truly was.

"Son, we have won this battle, is that not enough?" he asked aloud, glad he had sequestered himself in his cabin once he heard the voice of his son surface from the depths of his mind.

"My...old body was slain, and twelve longships went to the bottom. But not enough have survived for us to continue the fight."

Quellon had watched his old body consigned to the waves, sent to the body of the Drowned God. When Quellon had wondered if Balon would have wept, Balon had responded that such a thing would only show weakness.

Balon had continued making comments in that vein as Balon ordered the surviving ships to raise sail and make for the Iron Islands.

"Besides, I must claim the Seastone Chair - in your name. I never wanted to go to war in the first place."

 _And why is that, I wonder? You fought on the Stepstones in your youth. Did that make you lose your stomach for fighting?_

A lesser man would have been stung by the scorn in Balon's voice, but Quellon was too emboldened by the events earlier that day to let it bother him.

"'War is bad for trade. Weakness invites attack. To have peace, we must be strong,'" Those were the words of Qhorwyn the Cunning, who despite spending his entire reign avoiding war had tripled the size of his fleets. Quellon had read that early in his youth, from a book borrowed by Rodrik the Reader, and had often quoted it since.

 _'Longships are made to be sailed, swords are meant to be blooded'_ , replied Balon. Harwyn Hardhand used the fleet and arms prepared by his father to conquer the Riverlands, increasing the Ironborn's holdings tenfold.

Quellon stood suddenly.

"You may protest all you like, son, but this is still my body."

A knock at the door froze Quellon suddenly. Had someone heard him? It would not do to have the Ironborn whispering that their new king was a madman.

"Enter," he said in Balon's voice. The door opened and Euron entered, his single eye smiling.

"Brother," Quellon said grimly.

"Brother. I came to speak with you,"

Quellon nodded and motioned his son to a chair. Euron sat, then leaned forwards as if sharing some secret.

"Brother, I grieve for father as you do. Yet though he is not yet a day in the Drowned God's halls, and already there are rumors among the crew. They say you shall repeal father's edicts. The ones freeing the thralls, and forbidding reaving in Westeros."

 _And were I in command of mine own body, I would_ , Balon said.

 _Silence_ , thought Quellon. _Euron does not grieve for me, and I can see the greed in his eye. No doubt Euron started the rumors himself_. Quellon had expected his fifth son to start such mutterings, but so soon?

"The crew presumes too much. I shall do as I will."

Euron's smile flickered. This answer was unexpected, by all appearances.

"But Balon, we have spoken of this before. Father cared nothing for the Old Ways. Have you not said before that you shall make us great when you are lord?"

"I will make us great. But not through the Old Ways."

 _Father, you cannot do this_.

 _I can and will. This is my body now, gifted to me by the Drowned God's own hand. I will do with it as I will._

"What do you mean?" Euron asked, his smile now one of nervousness.

"I will continue my father's work."


	3. Quellon III

Quellon III

The screams from inside the birthing chamber had finally stopped. Now there was only the quiet murmurs of Maester Karl as he tended to the Lady Lanna of House Piper, Quellon's third wife, and her newborn child.

Quellon's last son had been born.

Quellon looked around at his three other living sons. Victarion stood by the door, stoic as usual. Euron lounged against the window, a bored look on his face. And Aeron, still haunted by the death of Urrigon, sat alone on a bench. The four of them had waited as Maester Karl helped Lady Piper give birth. Now the maester opened the door, wiping his hands with a damp cloth.

"It was a difficult birth, but I think they both shall live," he said timidly. Since his failure to save Urrigon, Maester Karl had avoided contact with the members of House Greyjoy as much as possible.

 _We should have put him to death._

 _If we had, he wouldn't have been able to save my son. Your brother. You never think ahead._

Quellon had grown adept at holding conversations with his son entirely with their thoughts. However, Balon rarely had anything productive to say, instead preferring to rail against the actions he saw as weak-willed.

 _Ah, Balon, but if I were weak-willed, I wouldn't be in control of this body. If anything, it shows you are the one who is weaker of will._

There was no response to that. No doubt there was some deep part of the mind Balon withdrew to when he was not haranguing his father. It seemed to Quellon to be the mental equivalent of hiding in the corner.

Quellon wanted to go into the room and hold his son, and comfort wife, but he was painfully aware he must show to the world that he was Balon. He entered the room, but did not approach the birthing bed. Victarion and Euron followed, but kept their distance. Aeron, though, walked up to the bed, smiling down at his new brother.

"Father?"

Quellon turned to look at the door. There stood his grandsons, Rodrik, Maron, and Theon, and his granddaughter Asha. He sighed inwardly. It would be no small thing to treat his grandchildren as his own children, yet at the same time it made his plans easier. Rodrik was only nine years old, but soon Quellon would need to arrange a marriage for him, and Maron could be fostered before that. If the Ironborn were to be tied to the mainland, then the children of their new lord would be invaluable.

"Come in, children," Balon said kindly.

"Is that our new uncle? Strange that he should be younger than all of us," japed Maron.

"It's getting crowded in here," snorted Victarion, and turned to leave. Euron followed him, giving Theon a grin which made him hide behind his brother Rodrik.

"Get off of me," Rodrik grumbled, cuffing his brother. Quellon stiffened. Though he did not truly think of the five children as his own, he still felt a grandfatherly responsibility towards them. He was also now aware of how he had failed to raise his own sons to follow in his footsteps. He had no doubt that without the Drowned God's intervention Balon would have undone all his work, and his other sons would have gladly helped.

"Rodrik," he said sharply, "He is only a child."

Rodrik cast him a sullen look, then left, having given the newborn only a cursory glance.

"What will you name him?" asked Aeron. Since the death of Urrigon he had been a sullen boy, but perhaps now that he had a younger brother he could begin to move past that.

Quellon glanced at his wife.

"Clement," the Lady Piper said, "After my brother."

 _The child is already half a greenlander, it is fitting he should be given a greenlander name._

 _Silence. That is my son you are speaking of._

 _You cannot silence me. I have no mouth to speak with. I am trapped in this body, unable to control it._

Quellon forced himself to smile.

"A fine name," Quellon said, "I am sure father would approve."

 _Does that strike you as a jape? Does my situation amuse you?_

 _I have seen how you raise your children. This is the better choice for all of House Greyjoy. In fact..._

"Children, time for bed," he said, placing his hands on Theon and Asha's shoulders.

"You too, Aeron, our stepmother needs sleep."

Herding his children out the door, Quellon cast a sad glance over his shoulder at his wife. Widowed, though her husband was standing in the same room.

 _Balon, do not think you are the only one who is trapped here_.

But Balon did not answer.


	4. Quellon IV

Quellon IV

Quellon led some of the foremost lords of the Iron Islands through the halls of Pyke.

"Just through here," he said over his shoulder, "Lord Harlaw is laying out his spoils - well, spoils may not be the right word..."

"No doubt," snorted Dunstan Drumm, "I've never known the Reader to pay the iron price when he could pay the gold."

Quellon reached the doors to the feast hall. He turned and faced the other lords.

"Well, that is actually why I gathered you here at Pyke. To show you the benefits of paying the gold price once in a while."

Erik Ironmaker narrowed his eyes with suspicion, but Sawane Botley and Meldred Merlyn looked interested. With that, Quellon threw open the doors.

There, laid out on the long table, were the choicest pickings of Rodrik Harlaw's voyage of trade. Chests of gold, casks of fine wine, baskets of oranges, bolts of brightly dyed cloth, iron worked with great skill into various shapes - weapons, armor, candlesticks, flagons, dishes, and ornaments. Standing at the head of the table, flanked by his sons Kenned and Ambrode, was the Reader himself, a book tucked under one arm.

"Goodbrother," Quellon said.

"My lord," he replied with a nod of the head, "As you can see, my lords, I have not been idle these last few months. I left the Iron Islands with three ships of iron ore and salted fish, and returned with all you see before you."

The lords poured into the hall, casting their eyes over the bounty. Rodrik waved a hand over the table.

"Please, take as you will. I brought this bounty to share among you at Lord Quellon's command, so that you may have a tast of what the gold price has to offer."

Like hungry wolves, the Ironborn lords fell upon the table. Erik Ironmaker heaved a chest of gold dragons off the table, while Gylbert Farwynd and Joron Blacktyde broached a cask of Arbor gold. Harmund Sharp peeled a blood orange and looked at the Reader.

"How came you by this bounty? Are you an alchemist, to turn iron into gold?"

A few scattered chuckles answered him, but most of the lords turned towards the Reader, who began walking around the table, pointing at each item in turn.

"The iron and fish I traded for wine in the Arbor and blood oranges in Dorne. Then I sold those in Tyrosh, and used the gold to buy dyes. I paid men to smith the remaining iron into these shapes, and to dye this cloth with some of my dyes. I sold the rest of the dye to men in King's Landing."

Now the lords were interested. A man could take these things on a raid, but never in such quantities. And the Iron Islands were rich in iron and fish but little else. The idea of a ship full of gold and wine was appealing.

Others though, balked at paying the gold price. Erik Ironmaker huffed and went to the far end of the table, a chest of gold under one meaty arm. Dunstan Drumm followed, buckling a fine sword around his waist. Gylbert Farwynd seemed more interested in the wine.

"I have not yet forbidden reaving beyond the Narrow Sea," said Quellon, addressing Erik and the Drumm, "For those who still wish to pay the iron price, there are ships in the Summer Sea and beyond ripe for the picking. Just know that your spoils can serve you well, provided they are not sitting in your hall collecting dust."

Now the two lords looked interested. The Drowned Men spoke often of the iron price, but when confronted with a larger bounty than any single reaving, the lords of the Iron Islands payed heed to their new lord.

"Well, gold is bright and nice to look at, but a man cannot live on it as he can fish, and it makes a poor armor, I am told," japed Harmund Sharp, "What can a man do with so much wealth?"

"Again my lords, I have the answer," replied Quellon, "For already I plan to build a great fleet with the gold we earn. Every man who wishes to pay the gold price, I shall loan a chest of gold from mine own treasury. This he shall use to buy and sell goods as he will, provided he return to me no less than twice that amount at the end of his voyage.

I intend to extend this offer to every captain on the Iron Islands, but I deemed it best to tell you first, being men of high standing as you are."

A few thoughtful glances went around the table. Quellon could see the Merlyn and Sawne Botley adding up the cost in their head. Both seemed to think the total rewards outweighed the small tax given to Quellon.

"This 'loan' sounds like you are sowing seeds and waiting for them to grow," said Dunstan Drumm gruffly, "Have you forgotten your own house words?"

 _Indeed, father, are you sure you are still a Greyjoy?_ came Balon's mocking voice.

"What I want to know is what this fleet shall be used for. Who shall command it?" asked Joron Blacktyde.

In truth, the idea had been Balon's. An "Iron Fleet" belonging to only the Greyjoys, similar to the Royal Fleet, and crewed by men from across the Iron Islands. Balon, though, would have used the fleet for war, while Quellon had a different use in mind.

"All shall be revealed in time," Quellon replied, avoiding Dunstan's question, "But for now we do not have the gold or the timber to build such a fleet, not on the scale I have planned. The gold you shall collect for me, while enriching yourselves, and as for the timber, I am already planning an alliance that will secure us all the wood we can desire."

The lords of the Iron Islands once more looked over the bounty, weighing their greed against their pride. Sawane Botley was the first to approach Quellon, followed by Meldred Merlyn.

"I shall take your gold, Balon, and my brothers and uncles as well."

"Aye, and I as well."

Harmund Sharp stood up.

"I'm not quite ready to give up the iron price, but I'll take your coin all the same."

Dunstan Drumm, Erik Ironmaker, and Gylbert Farwynd said nothing. Joron Blacktyde, though looked deep in thought.

Joron's wife was a Costayne of Three Towers in the Reach, and he had connections in Oldtown. The only sept in the Iron Islands outside of Lordsport was on Blacktyde. No doubt he saw the opportunity open to him.

"I'll take your deal, Balon, but only after you I'm sure this fleet of yours is possible. Secure that lumber, and I'll take your gold."

Quellon grinned.

"Thank you, my lords," he said, raising a goblet of Arbor gold, "A toast! To enriching us all!"


	5. Maron I

Maron I

Dragonstone was almost like one of the Iron Islands. Save for the smoking mountain above the castle, the stony beaches and grey seas could have fit right in among the scenery of Ironman's Bay.

Maron stood with his father Balon on the shore, while the welcoming party descended from the castle.

"Father, is it true that one of Lord Stannis' knights was smuggler? They call him the Onion Knight."

Balon gave him a sharp look.

"You would do best to mind your tongue, Maron. You're to foster here, and the 'Onion Knight' may train you to handle a ship. If he was a smuggler, he no doubt knows as much of the wind and waves as any ironman."

"Yes, father," Maron said quietly. He glanced up, and saw five men descending the stairs down to the beach.

The first wore a doublet emblazoned with a black ship, bearing an onion on its single sail. This, then, was the Onion Knight. The four fingers on his left hand were shortened. Next to him was a man with a pockmarked face, with...nightingales on his chest? Maron couldn't be bothered to remember all the sigils of the greenlanders.

Behind them was a stern man, gaunt and hard as iron, with a short bristly beard and a bald head. The dancing stag on his breast showed him to be Stannis Baratheon, new lord of Dragonstone. Though it had been only two years since he had taken the island from the last of the Targaryen holdouts, he already had the lords of Blackwater Bay well in hand, by all accounts. With him was a maester, in his robes and chain.

The last man was stout and very tall, with a pointed blonde beard and moustaches, his clothes were sea green and he had a merling on his breast. Maron struggled to identify the sigil. Manderly? But were they not a northern house?

"Lord Greyjoy," said Lord Stannis gruffly, giving Maron only a cursory glance.

"Lord Stannis. Ser Marlon, is your cousin here?"

"Yes, Lord Wyman, alas, finds it tiring to climb so many stairs so often. He did not wish to mean disrespect, so he sent me in his stead."

"Of course," father replied quietly. Then, curiously, a spasm of annoyance crossed his face, but not directed at Ser Marlon. Father would seem distracted every now and then, as if focusing on a sound no one else could hear. They were rare and fleeting, but Maron had noticed them.

"Well, then, let us make our way to the council chamber. I wish to make our deal quickly."

Stannis seemed pleased with this.

"Indeed. Pleasantries would only waste our time."

With that, the seven of them climbed the stairs to the castle of Dragonstone. Maron was in awe of the fortress. Every part of it seemed carved to resemble some great dragon, from the bridges and towers to the doorways and gargoyles. The interior, though, was pleasant. Though carved of dark stone, it was not like Pyke, where the cold sea wind blew into every crack and crevice. Rather, the whole castle seemed rather warm, as if a great fire was blazing underneath it. Maron supposed that was the work of the smoking mountain.

Passing through a doorway, Maron was shocked to see what men called the Room of the Painted Table.

Stretching across the room was a great table, carved and painted to resemble Westeros. Where Dragonstone would have been, there was a great chair, positioned so that the man who sat in it could look across the land. Stannis chose this seat for his own.

What drew Maron's eye immediately, though, was not the table itself. It was the man sitting near the eastern coast of the North.

Wyman Manderly, Lord of White Harbor, was immensely fat, wrapped in silks and furs, the very image of what the Ironborn hated about the greenladers. Soft, decadent, gluttonous. His feast of capons, fish, lamprey pie, and oysters spread out over the North, burying everything as far as the Kingsroad and Winterfell in fine foods.

"Lord Greyjoy! Come, sit! We have placed a chair in what I hope is a suitable position!" Lord Manderly said, after washing down a bite of lamprey pie with a goblet of Arbor gold. Father sat in a chair nestled, appropriately, in Ironman's Bay, and Maron sat next to him, eyes darting around at the various men.

Ser Marlon took a seat near his cousin, while Davos and the Knight of Nightingales sat on Lord Stannis' left, and the maester hovered behind him.

"Lord Stannis, I hear you have a new nephew! How is young - Joffrey, was it?"

Stannis Baratheon ground his teeth, apparently having been foiled in his attempt to avoid pleasantries.

"Blonde, like his mother, and loud and hungry like his father," he said through a clenched jaw. Wyman chuckled.

"Indeed, indeed! Now, Lord Greyjoy, is this your son Maron? A fine young lad-"

"Lord Greyjoy," Stannis interrupted, "Will you please tell us why you have requested this meeting with Lord Manderly? The Ironborn do not often have dealings with the rest of the Seven Kingdoms."

As his father nodded politely and drew several scrolls out of his belt, Maron got the idea Stannis only wanted to take receive his new ward, then get rid of all the guests. Clearly he found them grating. Maron knew he would not want Lord Manderly in his house, eating all his food for a great length of time.

"Well, Lord Stannis, times are changing. The Targaryens are gone, and I see it as a new chance for the Seven Kingdoms to come closer together. You have already agreed to foster my son here on Dragonstone, teach him to work a ship and command a crew, and I thank you for that. But I wished also to bring Lord Manderly into our little agreement."

Stannis looked across the table at the scrolls, now resting across the Trident. No doubt the Freys were furious at having several more bridges across their river. Maron stifled a giggle at the thought.

"Lord Manderly, I would like to make an official deal to trade for the lumber that you ship down the White Knife. It is simply a matter of gaining the resources to build ships, which as Master of Ships I'm sure Stannis would approve of."

That seemed to be the wrong thing to say. Stannis ground his teeth, but said nothing against Lord Balon, who pushed a scroll towards Lord Manderly. The fat lord wiped his mouth and picked up the scroll, unrolling it and holding it flat across the Vale.

"Well, now, you have iron ore, good, gold to pay, fine, various other goods - and these lords are to be welcome in my port?"

"Yes," Lord Balon replied, listing off the lords on his fingers, "Blacktyde, Wynch, Goodbrother of Hammerhorn, Greyjoy of course, oh, and Harlaw, then Merlyn and Sharp."

"Hmm, well, that can be arranged. I will warn you, shipping lumber is not easy, the prices may be steep depending on the harvest."

"No matter. With these lords trading in your port for things other than lumber - they'll be looking to buy silver and furs as well - House Greyjoy will start to have plenty of revenue in the next few years. Oh, and I'd like to seal the whole agreement with a marriage. Maron here to your...oh, oldest granddaughter."

Marriage? Maron didn't like the sound of that. What if the girl was just as fat as her grandfather?

"Wynafryd? Why, she's only five," said Lord Manderly, passing the agreement to his cousin, who looked it over carefully.

"And Maron is only ten. In another ten years they'll be old enough to marry. Enough time to let the trees grow, eh?"

Manderly laughed.

"Quite right, quite right! Well, I'm sure Wendel will have no qualms with that," he said as he wiped his mouth once more and turned to the maester.

"Do you have a quill and ink, my good maester? And would you mind glancing over the contract? A trained eye-" Stannis held out his hand.

"I will witness the agreement, apparently, so I shall verify the contract."

While Stannis read over the contract, the maester fetched a quill and ink from among his clothes. To Maron it seemed as if Stannis was glaring at the contract intensely, as if trying to intimidate it into giving up its secrets.

"I see no tricks here, Greyjoy. Let us sign it."

While Manderly and father took turns signing and sealing the contract, Maron felt his future sealed as well. Destined to marry some girl who might end up being as fat as her whale of a grandfather. And since his own father had strongly discouraged his family from taking salt wives, it seemed he would be stuck with the woman.

Finally Stannis signed and sealed the contract, witnessing that both parties were bound to the agreement. With that, Manderly stood to his feet.

"A fine day's work, but if you'll excuse me, I must make my way to the privy. Bad bowels, an unfortunate side effect of my condition," he said, slapping his gut. Then, with grace despite his girth, he walked out of the room. Ser Marlon stood as well, bowing to both Stannis and Balon.

"I must prepare our luggage. We will be leaving on the morning tide."

Once the room was cleared, Stannis looked at Maron.

"Since you are to be my ward, you should know my household. This is Ser Davos Seaworth, my righthand man. This is Ser Rolland Storm, the Bastard of Nightsong, my Master of Arms. Davos shall train you to handle a ship, Ser Rolland the sword. Maester Cressen shall teach you law and history. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Lord Stannis."

Stannis nodded curtly.

"Good. I shall give you a moment to say goodbye to your son, Lord Balon."

When the four men had left the room, Balon stood and walked around the table, looking pointedly at the Arbor, Casterly Rock, White Harbor, and Dragonstone.

"Do you understand what you just witnessed, Maron?"

"You gave me over to the keeping of a lobster and promised I would marry a walrus' granddaughter."

Balon looked at him sharply.

"I should hope Stannis teaches you not to mock your elders. What you saw was the first step in tying the Iron Islands to the rest of the Seven Kingdoms. White Habor and Dragonstone have powerful navies in their own right. With Stannis also commanding the Royal Fleet, the three of us can command the seas around Westeros. And you are the keystone of that alliance."

Maron looked at the Iron Islands, lonely and forlorn, separate from the rest of the Seven Kingdoms. Father stood behind the great chair, in Blackwater Bay. He sighed, then looked at Maron.

"My son, Stannis is a just man. He is hard, and unyielding, though. He may as well be half an ironborn himself," he said with a slight smile, "And I hope he will teach you all you need to know."

Balon walked around the table and placed a hand on his son's shoulder.

"I hope he will turn you into a man I can be proud of."


	6. Quellon V

Quellon V

Lordsport was bustling. Ironborn reaver-merchants rubbed elbows with sailors from the Arbor, Lannisport, and the Summer Isles. The first of the White Harbor lumber was being unloaded, Northmen and Ironborn swapping stories and insults alike. Whores called out from windows, men moved in and out of the sept by the docks, a Drowned Men preached against the rich and decadent to a sizable crowd. High on the hill, the timber and mottle keep of House Botley was being rebuilt in stone.

And further along that hill, lunch followed a successful business deal.

Quellon, his sons Victarion, Euron, and Aeron, and his children Rodrik, Asha, and Theon sat around the table, horns of mead or glasses of wine in their hands. Next to Quellon sat his third wife, Lanna Piper, and his three-year old son Clement.

Also attending were Sawane Botley and Rodrik Harlaw. And, across from Quellon was Tycho Nestoris, a Braavosi banker, garbed in purple velvet and wearing a three-tiered hat. Tycho Nestoris rolled up the parchment and slid it into a wooden tube.

"The loan is made. You shall receive your gold by the Braavosi new year," he announced in his quaint accent.

"When is that?" asked Victarion gruffly.

"Why, I believe halfway through your next Westerosi year," replied the banker. Quellon Greyjoy stood at the head of the table and raised a horn of mead.

"Very good! Thank, Lord Nestoris, with this gold we shall grow our realm even larger."

The banker bowed low, his strange hat bending dangerously forward. Quellon thought for a second it was going to fall off his head.

"I am no lord, only a humble servant of the Iron Bank."

"Either way, please have some mead. Or wine, if you prefer."

"Well, now that business in concluded I believe I can partake in a glass," he mused. He quickly poured himself a goblet of wine and looked to Quellon.

"Family, leal bannermen, business partners, to think that only three years ago my father died in battle off the Reach. However, I know if he could be here today he would be proud that we have continued his work."

 _Did that strike you as a jape, father?_

"With every passing year the Ironborn shall grow richer. And now, with this loan from the Iron Bank, we shall be able to hire smiths from Lannisport and Tyrosh. Our iron will fetch a much higher price at market if it is not raw ore. Even bars would increase its value, but we want weapons, armor, decorations..."

He looked around the table. Victarion stared blankly at his horn of mead, not following the conversation at all. Asha and Theon hung on his words, while Euron merely smirked. Sawane Botley seemed the most interested, but Rodrik Harlaw and the banker had heard it all before.

"But of course I ramble. A toast! To enriching the Iron Islands! Iron to Gold!"

"Iron to Gold!" his family and bannermen echoed. All across the Iron Islands those words were being said. Quellon had idly wondered if those would become House Greyjoy's new words.

Those seated around the table drank deep. While Aeron and Victarion refilled their horns, Asha showed Theon the dirk she had received for her tenth nameday.

"Father, when will I get a weapon?" asked Theon. Quellon smiled down at him.

"Well, your arms aren't strong enough to lift a sword or axe yet, but perhaps we can start you on the longbow. Dagmer can teach you to fletch arrows."

Theon thought for a minute, then nodded, apparently satisfied. Rodrik finished his mead.

"Father, where shall the smiths go?"

Quellon smiled to see his son interested in the new family business. He placed a hand on his son's shoulder and led him to the crest of the hill. Sawane Botley followed, interested.

Before them, on the other side of the hill from Lordsport, was a broad shallow valley with a small stream running through it. Quellon waved his hand over the vista.

"We shall dam the stream, and the smiths shall use the water to work their forges. House Greyjoy will receive the majority of their profits, with House Botley a smaller share," he explained, glancing at Lord Botley. Rodrik nodded, no doubt envisioning the valley covered with forges. Lordsport already had many smiths, but nothing on the scale of Lannisport or Tyrosh. Quellon turned, looking out across the bustling port town.

"On the other side of Lordsport, we shall expand the shipyards. At least twofold."

Rodrik raised an eyebrow. Euron leaned forwards over the table.

"What for, brother?"

Quellon grinned and addressed his three brothers.

"That is the second step in my grand plan. Once we have all this wealth and iron, we shall use it to build a mighty fleet and arm a mighty company. I have heard it said in the longhalls of the Iron Island that Balon Greyjoy has forgotten the Old Ways. Well, once the fleet is ready, we shall put it to good use!"

Now his brothers seemed interested.

"Against who, Balon?" Aeron asked, no doubt eager for a fight. Quellon merely grinned.

"That too shall be revealed in time."

Having said that, he turned to Sawane Botley.

"Now, sit! This fish was cooked with spices from Qarth! It has quite the savory taste, I am told."


	7. Aeron I

Aeron I

As Aeron Greyjoy's five longships sailed into Gulltown, evening was just falling. A fog hung low over the city. Aeron stood on the deck of the _Golden Storm_ , holding the tiller as he guided the ship into port.

"And you say the Master of Customs will make a deal?" Ralf the Limper muttered. Aeron nodded, adjusting the tiller slightly.

"Yes. In lieu of paying customs duties, we give him a...kickback, was the word he used."

"A bribe?"

"More or less. He'll invest it in spices - saffron, I believe - then give that to us to sell."

Ralf the Limper nodded. Truth be told, it was probably all over his head, but Aeron barely understood it himself. All it meant was he didn't have to pay money to the customs house, which to Aeron meant more gold to send back home, plus spice to sell. To turn a load of undyed wool into saffron was no easy task.

The _Golden Storm_ finally nosed against the dock. Aeron's men lowered the gangplank, allowing Aeron to disembark. Waiting at the end of the dock was Gulltown's Master of Customs and two guards. Aeron could not remember the man's name. Something Braavosi, perhaps. All he knew was there was a mockingbird sewn on his breast.

"Lord Greyjoy," said the man, stroking his pointed beard, "Have you come to make your payment?"

Aeron nodded gruffly and nodded to his men, who began unloading the bales of wool. Aeron handed over a sack of gold coins, and the Master of Customs looked from the wool to the sack.

"For services rendered," Aeron said, mock formally. The Master of Customs chuckled and pocketed the gold. Aeron cast a closer eye over the two guards. One was a grizzled man-at-arms with a hooked nose and a widow's peak, the other a quiet young man with a squashed nose, a square jaw, and a mat of nappy brown hair. Aeron thought they both had the look of freeriders or hedge knights.

"A pleasure to do business with House Greyjoy, as always. Have you told anyone else about our deal?"

Aeron bristled at that.

"Only the other four captains, and mine own crew," he snarled. Did the man think him a sneak? The Drowned God knew the Ironborn were distrusted enough in most ports outside White Harbor or the Stepstones.

"Calm down, friend Greyjoy, I only asked because I do not think I will be here in Gulltown for long. My connections have managed to gain me a place in King's Landing. I believe I will move many of my operations there. I simply thought you should know."

Aeron took a swig of mead from the skin at his belt and thought to himself for a moment. King's Landing meant more goods moved in greater volumes, which meant more money.

"Well, then, I believe when we next continue our business, it shall be in King's Landing," he said, offering his hand. The Master of Customs mirrored the gesture.

"And it shall indeed be profitable," he replied.


	8. Maron II

Maron II

" _And off they went, the bear!_

 _The bear and the maiden fair!_ "

Cheers sounded out as the musicians ended their song.

"Play another!" shouted a drunk Baratheon man-at-arms from further down the table.

"Please!" muttered Maron Greyjoy under his breath. Allard and Matthos Seaworth chuckled under their breath.

"You'd think it was the only song they knew!" Maric added.

Maron looked towards the dais, where Stannis Baratheon sat with his new wife, Bethany Redwyne.

"Does he look uncomfortable to you?" Allard asked.

In truth, Lord Stannis seemed more on edge than usual. He moved stiffly, only glancing up from his plate to nod his head in thanks as some reveler would come up to the table to congratulate him. Occasionally he would cast a nervous glance at his new lady wife.

"It can't be his _wife_ making him nervous, can it?" asked Maron. Bethany Redwyne, now Bethany Baratheon, was a beauty, with fine orange hair and a fair face covered in freckles. Her brother, Lord Paxter, and his sons Horras and Hobber, had stooped shoulders and weak chins, and Lord Redwyne was quickly balding. A glance further down the hall showed Desmond Redwyne shared the family look, despite being from a cadet branch.

"Maybe he's worried his children will take after their grandfather?" Allard japed, having followed Maron's gaze.

"It's probably because Paxter Redwyne tried to starve Stannis out of Storm's End. If a man did that to me, I wouldn't want him drinking my meat and mead and giving him my daughter," Matthos replied, raising his goblet in Lord Redwyne's direction.

Maron had to admit Matthos was right there. Stannis hated the Redwynes more than any house in the Seven Kingdoms save the Tyrells, he had to guess. Perhaps that was why King Robert had insisted on the marriage, so that he could see Stannis squirm. At least the wedding had not taken place at Storm's End. If that had happened, Stannis would have ground his teeth until they broke.

"Where is the King, anyway?" asked Maron suddenly, realizing the boisterous ruler had disappeared from the dais. Allard shrugged.

"Disappeared with one of the serving maids. Matrice, I think she was."

Maron glanced around the great hall of Dragonstone. Ser Desmond Redwyne fed sweetmeats to his wife Lady Denyse, Paxter's head lolled drunkenly as his wife Mina Tyrell tried to look dignified. On the groom's side of the hall, Ser Davos Seaworth tried not to draw attention to himself. When he had been introduced, Paxter had named him "the lowborn who made a fool of my best captains!" and had later muttered that the man had no business captaining a ship for a daughter of House Redwyne. Stannis had told the man to mind his tongue at that, and the two lords had been frosty towards each other since then.

Allard nudged Maron's side.

"Look, here comes Ser Rolland."

The scarred knight looked down at the four boys.

"I think it's time for you to make your way outside."

"Aww, but we've only had one glass," Allard said, but he stood up all the same.

"That was intentional," Ser Rolland replied.

"But Dale gets to stay!" Maric complained.

"He is a man grown. You are still boys."

With some grumbling, Maron and the Seaworth brothers made their way outside.

As the door shut behind them, the heavy air of the feast hall dissipated, and was replaced by the cool sea air. Maron breathed deep - he found himself outside the castle as much as possible. For someone raised in Pyke, it could be stiflingly hot in there.

"Aren't you to be married soon, Maron? You're three and ten," Matthos teased.

"My bride to be's only eight. We won't be married for another..." he counted the years on his fingers, "Seven years, at least."

Allard shrugged.

"Dale's to be married soon. The daughter of some landed knight."

Before Maron could respond, a great clamor came from inside the hall.

"The bedding! The bedding!" came the cry.

"Ah, we're missing the bedding," said Allard, kicking a pebble across the courtyard.

"I think that was intentional as well," Maron said. He turned to the Seaworth brother, "Hey, with everyone distracted, do you think we can get a firkin of Arbor gold from the kitchens?"

"We can say we were sent to fetch it for father," mused Allard, as he began to run towards the kitchens. Laughing, Maron followed him.


	9. Quellon VI

Quellon VI

Quellon was beginning to feel a little drunk. He thought it was warranted tonight, though.

Victarion married to Gysella Goodbrother, and Aeron to her sister Gwin. Gorold Goodbrother had driven a hard bargain, but to be married into the family with the largest iron mines on Great Wyk, Quellon had been almost happy to hand over a hefty share in Smithvale.

The double marriage tonight was the perfect way to seal the deal. Now with more iron flowing into Smithvale, their profits could increase yet more.

Quellon finished his mead and glanced around the great hall of Pyke. The guests, ranging from Goodbrothers to Harlaws to Botley to Greyjoys, were now getting roaring drunk. The brides and grooms had been sent off to their separate chambers, and it was time for the part of the feast where the alcohol flowed like a river.

A typical Ironborn wedding to most, but to a trained eye like Quellon's there were details that spoke of the wealth he had brought to the Iron Islands. More rings and necklaces, for one, the food was of much better quality, with more spices and fruits than you would find at a feast seven years ago, and of course the ironwork was exquisite. The apprentices trained by the smiths Quellon had hired from Lannisport were churning out some fine work; candlesticks, plates, flagons, window grates, and of course weapons and armor.

Quellon stood drunkenly to his feet. And of course, the latest letter from Maron said Stannis had been married to Paxter Redwyne's sister. That was good - the Redwynes were the most prominent naval force on the western coast, if they were tied to Stannis it meant they were that much less likely to take up arms against the Greyjoys. Not completely unlikely, if Quellon knew Paxter, but a little less.

Something else in the letter was good news, though Stannis doubtless hadn't seen it that way. Robert had fathered a bastard girl on one of the Dragonstone serving girls. Stannis had taken the fathering of this "Jocelyn Waters" on his own wedding night as a slight, and wanted the girl gone along with her mother. Perhaps he could be convinced to send the girl and her mother to Pyke.

"I'm done for the night. Keep the party going as long as you like," Quellon said to Euron, who had sat beside him through the feast. Euron smiled up at him.

"Can't say I need the encouragement, brother."

Quellon turned and walked out across the covered bridge to the Guest Keep, head swimming with mead.

 _Drunk already, father? Can't hold your liquor?_

Quellon stumbled as he walked through the doors of the Guest Keep. After long years, he had slowly managed to learn how to keep Balon's voice pushed back into his corner of the mind. It drained him at first, but slowly he had been able to block out the mocking voice. Now, though, it was back.

 _It has been a while since I heard from you_ , Quellon thought. In his drunken state he might have said it aloud. Quellon opened the door of the Guest Keep and stepped outside, onto the balcony. Before him was the first of the swinging rope bridges leading to the Sea Tower. He closed the door behind him, then froze.

With a sudden leaping sensation, he realized he no longer felt his legs. They began to move, his torso twisting around jerkily.

 _I will kill us both, father, if only I may be freed of this prison_ , came Balon's spiteful voice. Quellon realized he was losing control of his own body. Balon moved towards the bridge, lurching towards the left. He intended to jump.

 _My body_ , came Balon's grating voice in his head. Quellon saw the edge draw nearer, and reached out - not with his hands, he didn't have those anymore. Grasping wildly with this appendage of the mind, he felt it slip into his left hand, like a hand into a glove. The ledge was before him, a sheer drop to the churning waters of the sea far below.

 _My...body...not yours. Not anymore_ , Quellon thought as the hand clenched into a fist. He was sure he did not say that aloud, as he did not control his own mouth.

 _Damn you_ \- Balon had little time to reply before Quellon brought the fist crashing into his face. The shock sent Quellon back into alertness. Balon retreated, and Quellon reveled in the taste of clean air once more. His limbs returned to his control, but he felt weak. He slumped against the post that anchored the bridge.

The door behind him opened.

"Balon?" asked Euron, a hand axe in his belt and a halfhelm in one hand, "Are you okay?" he asked, an amused smile on his face.

Quellon touched his face, and flinched. When he struck himself, he must have left a large bruise.

"I stumbled against the post, nothing more," he said raggedly, "Why are you armed?"

Euron fastened the helmet on his head and offered his hand to Quellon, his single eye shining in the darkness.

"You had better sober up quickly, brother. Lordsport is burning."


	10. Rodrik I

Rodrik I

Rodrik was six and ten. Old enough for the heir of House Greyjoy to command the men of his house in putting down a riot, right?

"Where's Lord Botley?" he bellowed over the confusion. With his men behind him and Lordsport before him, he tried to make sense of the chaos. Armed men were everywhere, some looting, some fleeing, others fighting. Most of it he could barely see. It was a cloudy night, and the only visibility came from the flickering orange and red flames which hungrily devoured the thatch roofs and wooden beams of the town's buildings.

"Fighting in Smithvale!" one man responded, from his left. Yes, he could hear sounds of fighting over the hill in that direction. The clang of metal, louder than the hammerfalls that usually came from that direction.

"The ships are burning!" came another cry.

Off to his right, the glow of fire and a billowing cloud of smoke marked the newly expanded shipyards.

"There!" he shouted, pointing with his axe, "Save the ships!"

His men formed a shield wall and cut through the crowd like a knife through butter. Men joined them or stood and died. Others merely fled.

 _The one night I decided not to get drunk, and thank the Drowned God it's tonight_.

A Drowned Man with a driftwood club reared up in front of him. Rodrik brought down his axe once, twice, and the man went down in a welter of blood.

 _Well, at least we know who stirred up this crowd_.

The block of Greyjoy soldiers were nearing the Lordsport sept. A crowd of armed men were trying to keep back a mob of rioters away from it, the rioters were trying to reach it, and three Drowned Men urged them on. Rodrik licked suddenly dry lips and pointed with his axe.

"To the sept!"

Rodrik didn't worship the Seven gods of the greenlands, but his father had given the septons his protection, which made these rioters the enemies of House Greyjoy. And Rodrik knew this had been a coordinated uprising.

The armored Greyjoy men hit the rioters like a hammer against a bowl of eggs. They scattered, or died. Two of the Drowned Men went down immediately, and the third fled with a knot of his supporters following him.

"After them!" one of the sept's defenders yelled, but Rodrik stepped in front of him.

"No, you fools, the ships! Save the ships!"

There was now the sound of fighting from that direction, as well as the crackling of hungry flames.

"Get teams together! Fetch water and put out the flames!" he yelled at the men who had joined him. To the soldiers who had followed him from Pyke, he said "Protect the water bearers!"

His men moved to obey, charging down streets and alleys towards the fighting. The loud, rhythmic clank of armor from behind him announced the arrival of Lord Botley. As his household guard scattered to join the teams trying to fetch water, Rodrik saw dozens of smiths had joined him, bearing hammers and swords and axes they had made with their own hands. Some of them attacked the burning buildings, knocking down walls to stop the fires from spreading.

"We've secured Smithvale," Lord Botley said with a grin, "I think we've got this in hand."

Rodrik shook his head.

"Not until we get that fire under control."

Rodrik had worshiped the Drowned God all his life. But now the Drowned Men had turned against House Greyjoy. When this was over, they would not go unpunished.

But first, Rodrik would need a drink.


	11. Quellon VII

Quellon VII

The mood in Pyke was grim. The Drowned Men had sparked a coordinated uprising, sparking riots in Lordsport and Ironholt. In only a week the fighting had spread to every island.

The riots on Pyke had been put down, but much of Lordsport was damaged, including Smithvale. Most harmful of all, at least half the ships in the yards had been burned. By the time Euron had arrived at Iron Holt, Ser Aladale Wynch had broken up the rioters and put half a dozen Drowned Men to the sword. The two had spent the next few days hunting down the remaining rebels on Pyke.

"What news from the other islands?" asked Quellon hoarsely. He had not slept well these past few days. Balon's unexpected attempt to seize control coming right before this "Drowned Men's Uprising" had severely drained him.

Rodrik the Reader glanced at a map of the Iron Islands.

"House Myre is in rebellion. All branches of House Harlaw, House Kenning, and House Volmark have stayed loyal, though, and when I left Harlaw our forces were closing in on them. Hopefully we can stop them before they break free to join the other rebels."

"Other rebels?" asked Victarion. Euron pointed at the islands one after the other.

"All of Saltcliffe and Old Wyk have risen up against us. On Orkmont, the Orkwoods are in rebellion, but the Tawneys and Goodbrothers stayed loyal."

"And Blacktyde may as well be lost. Joron and his wife were locked inside the sept there, which was burned down. Young Baelor was spirited away by some family members to Harlaw," Ser Harras added.

"And Great Wyk?" Quellon asked.

"All houses stayed loyal, though the Drowned Men are leading roving bands of rebels all over the island," Rodrik Greyjoy answered. Quellon stood.

"We must contain this. House Greyjoys' fate stands on the edge of a knife, and with it all of the Iron Islands."

His family nodded. Rodrik Harlaw, Ser Harras, Ser Aladale Wynch, and Sawane Botley added their approval.

"Can we not ask the Iron Throne for help? Call on our new allies?" asked Asha. At four and ten, Quellon had deemed her old enough to captain a ship, and thus sit on the council of war. However, Quellon shook his head at her suggestion.

"That will inflame the rebels even further, seeing greenlanders getting involved. This must remain an internal affair for the Iron Islands."

Quellon looked at the map, then to each man at the table.

"Ser Harras, Ser Aladale, take one hundred men, all loyal captains and nobles as possible. Knights, if you can find any. Start on Pyke, then go to Harlaw, Great Wyk, Blacktyde, and Orkmont. Root out any dissenters. Even the Drowned Men. Those who preach against House Greyjoy shall be sent to their god.

Send out word that all those houses who are still loyal to House Greyjoy should muster at Old Wyk. As the most holy of the islands to the Drowned God, we must rob the rebels of their rallying point. Crush the Goodbrothers of Old Wyk, the Stonehouses, and the Drumms. Victarion and Euron, that will be your mission. Take what we have built so far of the Iron Fleet."

Quellon looked to Rodrik Harlaw, then to Lanna Piper. He had specifically asked his last wife to attend this council of war.

"Rodrik Harlaw, I will require you to go to Oldtown. Stepmother, you shall go with him. You are to request that the Citdael send us more maesters. From there, sail to King's Landing. Lanna, go to the High Septon and ask him to send septons to the Iron Islands. They and the maesters shall spread my edicts, and Ser Harras' knights shall enforce them."

"Edicts?" asked his grandson Rodrik. Quellon tapped the cover of the book in front of him. At his request, Rodrik Harlaw had brought it with him from Ten Towers.

"I intend to put down this uprising. When we do, I will take a page from Harmund the Haggler's book. Almost literally."

Rodrik Harlaw nodded, as he understood quickly, but Quellon's sons and grandson looked confused.

"Harmund said there were Eight gods: the Seven of the greenlands, and the Drowned God. The Storm God was an aspect of the Stranger. I intend to resurrect this belief. The Drowned Men who survive the war will be allowed to continue preaching as they will, but I will do the same. All who wish to follow my example will be allowed to do so without fear of repercussion."

The mood around the table darkened. Victarion and Aeron no doubt thought it blasphemy, Rodrik Greyjoy as well. The Reader, Lanna Piper, and the knights seemed somewhere between curious and apprehensive.

"This will cost us dearly in coin as well. The damage is already mounting, and the cost of rebuilding Lordsport and Iron Holt will be high. Add to this the fact that we are behind on constructing the Iron Fleet...well, I think we may have trouble repaying the Iron Bank's debt by the deadline. Perhaps if we requested an extension..."

Quellon looked to his grandson.

"Or if we obtained a deal with House Lannister for an additional loan."

Aeron spoke up suddenly.

"Brother, I know the new Master of Coin. I...did business with him when he was the Master of Customs at Gulltown. Let me go with the Reader and our stepmother to King's Landing."

Quellon raised an eyebrow, but nodded.

"Very well."

Quellon looked at the map one more time. Three islands loyal, two in open rebellion, two contested. When looked at together, this rebellion was not strong enough to win. Even if they did grow stronger with time, which seemed unlikely, they had no uniting force beyond opposition to House Greyjoy. Quellon nodded one last time and sank into his chair.

"You all have your tasks. Go now, and secure our future."

One by one, the members of the council left, casting apprehensive glances at the map of the Iron Islands. When the room was cleared, Quellon carefully undid the mental restraints he had on Balon.

"Well, son, what did you think of that?" he asked aloud.

 _I think this is blasphemy. The Drowned God lumped in with those demons. You are betraying even your own faith for your ambition_.

"I am doing this for the good of all the Iron Islands."

 _You are faithless. You would use the gods as your own pawns. Blasphemer_.

Quellon sank into a grim silence. Balon to said nothing. In truth, he was right. With the end of the rebellion, the final nail would be put in the coffin of the Old Ways. And the Drowned God, if he existed at all, would doubtless be furious.

"It shall be done anyway," Quellon said finally, "And it shall be what the Iron Islands need."


	12. Victarion I

Victarion I

Victarion moved easily in the full plate. It was a pleasant feeling, to be garbed head to toe in iron. He, of course, expected to be armored so for battle, as he was the brother of the Lord Reaver of Pyke. But, to be one of twenty men armored so, this was something Victarion could not have foreseen when Balon's reign began. And Balon intended for a full company of these armored axemen to be supplied! An Iron Company, the fist that would break the Iron Islands' enemies on land while the Iron Fleet engaged them at sea.

Victarion turned to Euron, who watched the shores of Old Wyk pass by with his characteristic smile.

"Well?" Euron asked, "What do you think of our army?"

Victarion raised the visor of his helmet and looked. Aside from the twenty armored axemen, the [I]Iron Victory[/I] was crowded with reavers. As was the ship behind them. And the ship behind that. The fledgling Iron Fleet, thirty strong, was at the head of the flotilla. It was those lords that had rallied to the Greyjoy banner that Euron was doubtlessly asking of.

Aside from the Wynches, Botleys, and houses of Great Wyk, many minor houses had come out in support of House Greyjoy.

"Humbles, Netleys, Sharps, Shepherds, Weavers...young houses, low in prestige," he grumbled. Euron laughed.

"And thus, they have all the more reason to join us! When the rebels are defeated, there will be lands and castles aplenty for them!"

Victarion turned and looked at the enemy ships, clustered in the mouth of Nagga's Cradle. Stonehouses, Drumms, and Goodbrothers of Old Wyk, mostly. And Codds. Damned Codds. Reavers were gathered on the shore was well, on the spit of land overlooking the entrance to the bay. Behind them rose Nagga's Hill. Victarion turned once more to Euron.

"I shall lead our men onto the shore. You break those ships."

Euron laughed and waved to his brother.

"As you say, brother!"

With that, Euron ran across the width of the deck, then sprang onto the rail and jumped across to his ship, the [I]Silence[/I]. Standing nimbly, he pointed his axe forwards.

"Send them to their Drowned God!"

The drums beat wildly, and two-thirds of the Iron Fleet and House Greyjoy's allies streamed forward, eager to come to grips with the rebels. The remaining third peeled off and made for the shore.

Questions of gods and politics meant nothing to Victarion. Here was a problem he could solve. It was time for the dance of steel and blood.

He leapt into the water as soon as he felt the keel grate on stone, and landed up to his shins. He pointed his greataxe at the clustered men on the hill above him.

"Time to paint Nagga's Ribs red with blood!" he thundered, and more of his armored men moved up next to him. Some were armed with greataxes, other with shield and sword or hand axe. They formed the head of the wedge, behind them came the normal reavers. They thundered up the slope, and the enemy came to meet them.

 _Good_ , thought Victarion.

With a swing of his axe, he took the first man's hand off at the wrist and the second one's arm off at the shoulder. They fell back, blood spattering his armor. His armored men fell on the enemy like hawks among doves, scattering them. The slope soon descended into a chaotic melee.

Victarion stood above it all, letting his enemy come to him. Four rebels broke out from the press of men and ran at him from different directions.

He swung his axe wide, taking down the one on his far left first. The man next to him balked for a second - that would be enough. The two on his right managed to close, but their sword and axe merely dented his plate armor. He spun, axe whistling through the air, and bit deep into one man's torso. He screamed and went down, and the third man was slain from behind by a throwing axe. The last man tried for his head, but Victarion bulled forward and took him down.

With these foes dead, Victarion turned, looking for his next target. There, standing alone, like him, amidst the press of men, was a great man with a fur cloak and a mighty warhammer.

"IRONMAKER!" Victarion bellowed over the din. Erik Ironmaker turned and snarled. His hammer was already caked with gore and bits of bone. He charged, throwing men to his left and right in his haste to get at Victarion Greyjoy.

Victarion knew one good blow from that hammer would crumple his armor like tin. He had to be fast. He charged forwards just enough to build up momentum, then dodged to the left at the last minute. Erik's hammer went wide, and its weight carried him forward, past Victarion, who turned quickly. His axe bit deep into Erik's side.

The Ironmaker roared and turned, bringing down his hammer. Victarion barely turned, and the hammer caught him a glancing blow that nevertheless drove him almost to his knees. He brought up his axe in time to deflect Erik's clumsy follow-up swing, then came roaring to his feet, his axe shearing off the Ironmaker's head in one clean stroke.

Victarion caught his breath and took stock of the battlefield. Euron's ships were tearing through the rebels, in fact the Codds were already scattering to the four winds. The rebel Goodbrothers were trying to cut their way through to Shatterstone, but their distant cousins were among them, burning some ships and boarding others. And on land, the rebels were fleeing back to regroup among Nagga's Ribs.

A lesser man might have balked at shedding blood on holy ground. But to Victarion, shedding blood was what he understood best. He ordered his men to pursue.


	13. Harras I

Harras I

Ser Harras Harlaw, the Knight of Grey Garden and the Commander of the Lord's Enforcers, shouldered his way through the crowd. Together with Little Lenwood Tawney, he half-dragged, half-led Tarle the Thrice-Drowned down to the end of the dock.

When the Drowned Man had been cornered at Corpse Lake, he had a dozen men with him. But Harras was armored head to toe in steel, and the priest's followers had been garbed in robes and armed with driftwood clubs.

Tarle's wrists and ankles were bound with heavy manacles, and dried blood crusted over the wound on his forehead. The Drowned man glowered at the fisherfolk of the village, but they simply stared blankly at the Enforcers and their prisoner. While the waves lapped against the wooden pilings, Harras and Tawney grabbed their charge by the upper arms and turned him to face inland.

"Tarle the Thrice-Drowned!" Ser Harras began, "Do you admit to the crime of inciting the riot at Downdelving, against the Goodbrothers, leal servants of House Greyjoy?"

"The Greyjoys have forsaken the Old Ways! When they are cast down and their ill-gotten wealth handed over to the masses, the Drowned God shall make the islands great again! If this is not done, the tidal wave of his wrath shall sweep over the Iron Islands and make them clean!" the priest screamed.

"Sounds like a confession to me," grunted Lenwood Tawney. Together, he and Ser Harras reached down and grabbed Tarle by the ankles. They picked him up bodily, swung him back once, and threw him off the dock. He had time for one indignant shout, cut short as he disappeared beneath the waves with a tremendous splash. He did not surface again.

It was an ignoble end for what was once the holiest man on the Iron Islands.

 _But the Eight help me if I didn't enjoy it a little_ , Ser Harras thought as he turned back to the crowd.

Ser Harras' Serrett mother had insisted on her son being raised a knight, and Ser Harras had done his best to please her. Anointed in the light of the Seven, he found himself at once separate and yet at the same time part of Ironborn society. A man who went against the grain could make it amongst the Ironborn, so long as he was strong and fast, but he would always be apart from his peers. And except for his family and his childhood friend Rodrik Greyjoy, Ser Harras had been on the outside looking in for most of his life. But when Balon revealed his religious ideas, that the Drowned God could stand on the same level as the Seven of the greenlands...Ser Harras had seized on the idea with both hands. He had resolved to build a sept on Grey Garden once the war was over.

Thanks to Balon, Ser Harras had a way to finally join the Ironborn. With the blending of Old Ways and New the Greyjoys had brought about, a man who straddled that line had much to gain.

"It's over now, back to your nets," Ser Harras barked, and in ones and twos, the crowd began to disperse. A few cast sullen glances at the two enforcers, others nodded to one another with approval, but the rest simply shrugged with indifference. Harras wondered how much the fishing village had been touched by Balon's reforms. The poorer villages were hotbeds of sympathy for the Drowned Men. Perhaps if every village in the islands was surveyed, Balon could know where the rich and poor lived...

His thoughts were interrupted by Lenwood Tawney, who elbowed him in the side.

"We should report to Lord Farwynd."

The impromptu trail and execution had taken place on Sealskin Point, a short ride from Lord Farywnd's castle. It made sense to inform him.

"Be good to get some news as well," Ser Harras replied.

When the last ravens had reached Ser Harras, the war had been going well. Euron and Victarion had shattered the rebels at Old Wyk, with Euron slaying Dunstan Drumm with a thrown axe and taking the Valyrian steel blade Red Rain from his corpse. Victarion had stormed Shatterstone and put the garrison to the sword, and the two brothers were subduing the rest of the island. The Myres had surrendered, handing over the Old Grey Gull and Pinchface Jon Myre. Jon Myre was to be sent to the Wall, the but the Drowned Man was sent to his god. From there, the Harlaws had scoured Blacktyde clean of rebels and restored yound Lord Baelor to his seat.

Romny Weaver held the bridles of their horses. Only a handful of the Ironborn could ride horses, and most of those came from Harlaw, where the shaggy ponies were in abundance. Weaver had learned to ride as a ward in Pyke, and Little Lenwood Tawney's father owned a few garrons. Ser Harras' steed was a fine warhorse, bought in Lannisport with gold made from trading, but the others rode Harlaw ponies.

As they rode, their cloaks flapped in the wind coming in from the sea. Each cloak was pinned at the shoulder with the new badge of the Lord's Enforcers: an oar and spear, crossed in an X, a kraken's tentacle wrapped around them where they met.

When they reached Triston Farywnd's castle, the crippled lord admitted them into his solar.

"How goes the fighting?" Ser Harras asked. Triston Farywnd gestured towards the scroll on his desk.

"Bloody. The Orkwoods burned out the Goodbrothers of Orkmont, and the Tawneys were thrashed at sea but beat the Orkwoods on land."

"So...a draw?" Lenwood Tawney asked. Triston Farwynd nodded.

"So it seems. Once Victarion and Euron subdue Old Wyk, they'll put down the Orkwoods. Meanwhile, the Harlaws are closing in on Saltcliffe."

Ser Harras nodded.

"Any word from the other lords of Great Wyk?" he asked. Lord Triston shrugged.

"No more roving bands in almost a week. I think Tarle the Thrice-Drowned was the last of them."

He paused a moment.

"Dark times on the Iron Islands, when we must kill priests."

"The priests rose up first," Ser Harras insisted, "We are restoring the peace."

He turned to his two companions.

"We'll gather up our men. Wait a week, then go to Blacktyde. If there are any holdouts, we'll find them."

As his men moved back down the stairs, Ser Harras cast a suspicious glance at Triston Farwynd. There were surely plenty like him on the Iron Islands, men who balked at rebelling against the Greyjoys but sympathized with the rebels. Ser Harras hoped that once the Uprising ended he would find an outlet for all those reavers. Otherwise, it wouldn't be long before a second rebellion started.


	14. Asha I

Asha I

At the sight of the Saltcliffe and Sunderly fleets arranged against them, Asha's bowels turned to water.

This was not her battle. The _Black Wind_ had been jumped by survivors from the Battle of Old Wyk twice on the way to meet up with the Harlaws, and both times Asha had fought well. She had killed her first man when she had cut down a boarder with her hatchet, and taken her first wound when a dirk had punched through her boiled leather jerkin over her shoulder. Qarl the Maid had finished the man off for her.

Now, though, seeing at least fifty ships against the fleet from Harlaw, Asha was nervous. It wasn't even that they outnumbered the loyalists - if anything, the Harlaws probably had the edge in numbers.

"It's my first true battle," she muttered under her breath. Dagmer Cleftjaw half-turned, raising an eyebrow.

"Eh?" he asked. If her crew had not respected her, at first, they had at least repected Dagmer. Her father had appointed him her first mate for that reason. With Qarl the Maid and Tristifer Botley on board as well, she had been able to keep her crew in line. And once she had killed alongside them, it was easier for them to take orders from a woman.

"I said out oars. The drums are sounding," she said, louder, and with the weight of an order.

Sure enough, the drums and horns were sounding, carrying out across the water. Dagmer sneered through his ruined mouth and turned towards the crew.

"You heard her, you sons of whores! Row! Bend your backs!"

The crew grunted as they pulled at the oars in time with the beat of drum. All along the line, ships were speeding forward to meet their enemies. Asha jumped up on the rail and peered out across the water, watching for a ship that would come to meet them. Off to her right, Rodrik the Reader's _Sea Song_ , commanded by his son Kenned, was making for Bloodless Tom Codd's _Lamentation_. But before _Black Wind_ , a longship was racing forward, bow crowded with reavers.

 _Red Jester_. That was Red Ralf Stonehouse's ship. He must have escaped from Old Wyk and joined the Saltcliffes for one last stand. Asha jumped to the deck.

"Here they come! Prepare to be boarded!"

Her crew sprang to their feet, snatching up weapons or preparing to wield their oars. Dagmer Cleftjaw laughed and twirled his hatchet above his head.

"That's it, lads, come and meet the Drowned God!"

 _Red Jester_ grew closer. She was coming in from the right, set to connect with the _Black Wind_ 's starboard bow. Grappling hooks flew out, connecting the two ships.

With a crunch of timber, the ships met, and reavers came pouring over the side. The first to set foot on deck was impaled by Tristifer Botley's boarding pike, the second cleaved from neck to belly by Lorren Longaxe's weapon. In a flash, though, the deck was awash with blood, and crammed with fighting men from port to starboard. Asha rushed into the fray, dirk in one hand and throwing axe in the other.

Droopeye Dale was grappling with one of Ralf's crew. She ducked low, under Dale's oar, and drove her dirk into the reaver's chin. As the reaver collapsed, Dale swung his oar over Asha's head, braining another boarder.

Asha continued to make her way up the deck, slashing at men who passed to her left and right. Dagmer Cleftjaw was wreaking red ruin with his axe, and Tristifer Botley followed behind, stabbing around the old warrior, defending his flanks. Asha passed Six-Toed Harl lying dead in a pool of blood, and watched as Cromm fell backwards over the rail, pulling one of the boarders with him.

And still the enemy kept coming. Asha saw Red Ralf Stonehouse land on deck, a towering man with short sword and buckler in his hands. Qarl the Maid looked at her and nodded, and the two raced towards him. Asha threw her axe, which Ralf easily dodged, but that gave Qarl the Maid time to get in under his shield, stabbing at his gut. Ralf took a cut, but moved to cross blades with Qarl. Asha darted in, stabbing Ralf through the kidney. He had time for one look of shock before Qarl took off his head. It rolled away and vanished over the side with a splash.

Asha rushed to the railing. To the port, Lord Blacktyde's _Nightflyer_ was moving towards them, captained by Beron Blacktyde, the young Lord Baelor's uncle. The longship crashed into _Red Jester_ amidships, stoving her hull in, and the ship began to sink beneath the waves.

"Don't let her take us down, too!" Asha yelled over the carnage. Roggon Rustbeard and Hagen the Horn joined her at the rail, cutting at the grappling lines. Reavers from the _Red Jester_ screamed or tried to board the _Black Wind_ or the _Nightflyer_ , or else disappeared beneath the waves. Towards the center, _Sea Song_ had sunk the _Lamentation_ as well as Donnel Saltcliffe's flagship _High Tide_. To the _Black Wind_ 's starboard, Queer Qarl Kenning's _Reaver Boy_ pulled alongside. The captain waved.

"They're running! Let's hunt them down!" he yelled. Next to him, Eerl Harlaw cheered.

"And after, there's loot to be had on Saltcliffe!"

All that was left of the _Red Jester_ was wreckage bobbing in the waves. _Nightflyer_ was racing after the fleeing Sunderly ships. Asha turned to her crew.

"Come on boys, let's drive them from the Islands!"


	15. Aeron II

Aeron II

Aeron had been to King's Landing before on business, but he had never set foot inside the Red Keep. He could not help but stare at all the greenlander lords and ladies in their silk and velvet, bedecked in gold and silver jewelry.

 _One could say the same of some lords of the Iron Islands_ , he thought, _But those lords earned the coin that bought them with their own hands, reaving or trading_. He himself stood out somewhat, in only a black wool doublet, with the kraken of House Greyjoy embroidered across the chest.

Other wealth there was in abundance: finely woven tapestries, brightly painted vases, and of course ironwork, in the form of torch holders, candlesticks, and window grates. Some of it was of better make than what Smithvale could produce, but more was rusted with age. Aeron wondered if offering to replace some of the Red Keep's ironwork could be an additional source of revenue for House Greyjoy.

He was admitted into Lord Baelish's study by a guard he did not recognize. The Master of Coin looked up from his desk, piled high with scrolls and books, and smiled warmly.

"Aeron, my friend, I had wondered when you would arrive. Would you like some wine? A fine vintage," he said, rising to his feet with a flagon in his hands. Aeron thought for a moment.

"Yes, I believe so," he replied softly. He took his seat while Lord Baelish poured his a goblet of wine.

"How is King's Landing treating you?" the Master of Coin asked. Aeron took a sip of wine and scowled.

"This city stinks. And not of the sea," he grumbled. Lordsport was rich with the smells of charcoal, and sea salt and fish, and rotten seaweed; familiar smells to an Ironborn. But King's Landing smelled of shit, smoke, and sweat. Above the city, the Red Keep smelled of woodsmoke and faint perfumes, but to Aeron the city was crowded and cluttered. Even the Blackwater had an oily, muddy look to it.

"Yes, the city does have a bad odor when the wind is not from the sea," Lord Baelish mused, "But! Enough prattle - you came here for business!"

Aeron nodded curtly.

"Yes. Doubtless you have heard of the Drowned Men's Uprising?"

"I would like to say it is the talk of King's Landing...but unfortunately the Iron Islands are far away, and few in the capital have much business there," Lord Baelish said sympathetically.

"But you do," Aeron pointed out, "And if we are low on coin, that affects you."

Lord Baelish brightened.

"So it does! I do wonder what I can do to help. Unfortunately the Crown already has borrowed extensively. An additional loan, I am afraid, is out of the question."

Aeron was dejected. To come all the way to King's Landing for the Master of Coin's help, only to be denied a loan...

"However," Lord Baelish began, "I can help in other ways. I have bought up many properties in the city, warehouses and such, and I have connections among many merchants. I can...encourage merchants to make the voyage to the Iron Islands, offer cuts to Ironborn who use my properties, even offer minor investments to individual captains."

Aeron brightened.

"Truly? Lord Baelish, this would be a great help-"

Lord Baelish raised his hand. His smile did not seem to reach his eyes.

"Now, you must understand I am not doing this on behalf of the Crown, I am doing this as a personal favor to my good business partner. And, of course, a favor deserves a favor in return. Quid pro quo, as the Valyrians say."

Aeron paused. While he had been sent to negotiate on behalf of House Greyjoy, he did not want to agree to anything Balon would oppose.

"What sort of favor?"

Lord Baelish's eyes brightened. He pulled a scroll out from the stack at his elbow.

"These are a list of merchant captains who no longer wish to pay me...kickbacks. If their ships were to go missing - the Stepstones are so dangerous, are they not?"

The implication hung in the air. Aeron nodded slowly.

"I...may be able to agree to that. Is there anything else?"

"Oh, not at the moment, but I'm sure we can discuss this further. For now, perhaps you'd like to partake in another of the properties I own? The women there are quite fragrant, I can assure you."

Aeron paused, his goblet halfway to his mouth.

 _A brothel_?

"I am just married," he muttered lamely. In truth, he had barely know Gwin for a week before the uprising had broken out. In that short time, she had laughed at his japes and clapped as he juggled knives at their wedding feast, but when it came time to bed her she had had to coax him out of his clothes.

"Oh, you don't take me for the type to be so faithful. I'll even offer you a discount, just between friends."

Somewhere, there was the sound of a door opening.

Aeron downed his wine and laughed heartily.

"Well, with a deal like that, how I can refuse! I warn you, though, I intend to take full advantage of your offer! Ha!"

Lord Baelish rose, laughing softly.

"Of course, my friend, of course."


	16. Quellon VIII

Quellon VIII

The mood in Pyke had been ecstatic for almost a month after the Battle of Orkmont. The last of the rebels had been defeated, and no more than a dozen longships had survived to reave their way down the coast and take up hiding in the Stepstones. A few rebel Drowned Men were still hiding out on islands like Orkmont and Saltcliffe, but it was only a matter of time before Ser Harras' Enforcers hunted them down and gave them justice.

Even Quellon's conversion had not dampened the mood. Rodrik the Reader's return to Pyke with a shipload of maesters and septons had caused a stir.

"The Drowned Men turned away from House Greyjoy," Quellon had said before an assembly of the citizens of Lordsport, "An thus I am turning away from the Drowned Men. From now on, I shall worship the Drowned God beneath the roof of a sept."

Men had muttered to one another, but being free to worship the Drowned God in their own way they said no more of it. A few lords even joined Quellon in his conversion, including Ser Harras and the Blacktydes. Any further dissent was silenced when Quellon began to hand out the prizes to his faithful lords. Houses Humble, Sharp, Weaver, Netley, and Shepherd had all received the lands of the defeated rebels. Rodrik's second son Ambrode was given Shatterstone on Old Wyk. Other brothers and second sons of loyalist houses received minor lands and titles, and of course there was loot aplenty. Curiously, none of the titles went to members of House Greyjoy.

At the great feast of Pyke, men said the days of the reavers had come again. Flush with loot and lands and glory, they spoke of the continued construction of the Iron Fleet, and the days when the Ironborn would go to war with those outside the Iron Islands. The only question was who. Few suspected the greenlanders, which meant Balon had set his gaze beyond the Seven Kingdoms. Perhaps he would take the Stepstones, or one of the Free Cities. Perhaps the peaceful Summer Isles, or even further afield to Sothoryos. Behind the doors of Pyke, the mood was less jubilant.

"We have been lucky," Quellon said to his sons and grandchildren, "The rebels have been put down, and thanks to Aeron we have a way to renew our funds. However, we are still in a tenuous position. The Iron Fleet is behind schedule, but when it is finished, we must immediately use it." Rodrik the Reader glanced up from his book.

"Where shall we go, brother?" Euron asked. Quellon sighed and pushed a map of the Narrow Sea towards the center of the table.

"We will take the Stepstones, in the name of King Robert."

For a moment, there was silence around the table. Rodrik was the first to speak.

"I see. We can tax ships passing through, while eliminating many of the pirates who plague the Narrow Sea," he said. Asha nodded.

"And we can sate the reavers. Loot and glory aplenty."

She paused.

"Who will rule the Stepstones once we take them?"

Quellon smiled at Victarion, Aeron, and Euron.

"I had hoped to give them to my brothers. Then, we would use the islands as a base for the Iron Fleet and the Iron Company, while they do mercenary work in the Free Cities. That will offer us a new source of gold, and appease the reavers among us."

Euron smiled broadly, while Victarion nodded once. Aeron took a swig of mead and laughed.

"Good! I expect Gwin to start pumping out children any day now! We'll need room for the little ones to run around!"

"Wait," Asha said suddenly, "Will the Free Cities just let us take them?"

Rodrik the Reader shrugged.

"Perhaps. I researched the history of the Stepstones at Balon's request. When the Triarchy took the Stepstones, the other naval powers were simply relieved to have the pirates gone. It was only once they began to charge too high for passage that Westeros and the Free Cities turned against them. So long as we tread carefully, we will be able to retain the Stepstones."

The others at the table were silent.

"We trust you, brother," Victarion said finally, and Aeron added his agreement. Euron nodded, his eye shining. Quellon looked at his children.

"You will have vital tasks as well. We need additional allies, now on the west side of the Seven Kingdoms. Rodrik, I hope to court Casterly Rock by marrying you to a Lannister cousin, and perhaps gain an additional loan. I hope to foster Clement in Oldtown or the Arbor, and perhaps a deal can be made with the Mormonts or Glovers for more timber. Asha, you will need to marry as well, perhaps the son of Lord Mallister."

Asha bristled at that.

"I cannot make my own choice, then?"

Quellon frowned.

"I have let you captain your own ship. Do not think you are not given certain liberties. But I am your father, and if I say you shall marry, you shall. You will come with me when I visit Seagard, and there you will court Patrek Mallister."

Asha glared at Quellon for a moment, then broke eye contact.

"Yes, father," she muttered lamely.

"Finally, we are receiving a new guest. Robert Baratheon's bastard, Jocelyn Waters, is being sent here, as per Stannis' request."

"King Robert agreed to that?" Rodrik asked. Quellon nodded.

"Yes. This is a sign of his trust, I believe. Fostering a royal bastard is no small duty. The babe will arrive here within the year. I expect the Iron Fleet will not be completed and ready for war for another two years, at least. Until then, we must prepare ourselves."

Quellon looked once more around the table.

"The Old Ways are done. Now is the time to usher in the New."


	17. Aeron III

Aeron III

"Aye, that's her," Aeron said to his first mate Eldis. He lowered the Myrish glass, watching the ship shrink to a small spot on the horizon.

"The _Trumpeteer_ , a Lyseni merchant. One of the ones on Lord Baelish's list," he recalled.

"Must be stuffed with lace and tapestries," Eldis replied, licking his lips, "And fine wine..."

"And all of it's ours, if we can take her."

Aeron carefully stowed the Myrish lens and turned to his crew.

"Full speed! Don't let her catch on!"

With rhythmic grunts, the crew pulled at their oars, causing the _Golden Storm_ to fly ahead. The wind was strong, but the Lyseni ship was unaware of how much danger she was in. Aeron could see the brightly colored sails clearly by the time she signaled them.

"Captain, they want to know our intention!" yelled the lookout. Aeron pawed the handle of his axe nervously.

"More speed!"

A tense minute passed. The only sound was the crashing of waves, the hissing of the wind in the rigging, and the grunting of the crew as they pulled their oars. When Lyseni vessel continued to signal, Aeron knew they were caught. Ironborn ships were becoming more common in these waters, and doubtless the Lyseni vessel saw no danger in their apporach. And once Aeron sunk her, the Ironborn's reputation would go untarnished.

At length the _Trumpeteer_ stood three shiplengths away, and the game was on. The alarm went up from the crew of the merchant ship, and Aeron bellowed orders. Half the crew sprang to their feet, wielding axes, swords, and boarding pikes. Others took up bows and clustered at the rail.

Two shiplengths away. The Lyseni was piling on all sail, but it was too late. One shiplength away.

A volley of arrows flew out across the water, into the sailors milling around on deck. Men fell dead or dying, and the sailors scattered somewhat avoiding the shafts. Some greenlanders scorned the bow as a coward's weapon, the the Ironborn knew the strength and skill required to pull a bow made it an honorable weapon. Th first grappling hooks flew out, latching on to the railing of the _Trumpeteer_. Wary of arrows, Lyseni sailors rushed to the railing, trying to hack at the ropes, but the _Golden Storm_ closed with her. More arrows landed among the crew clustered at the rail, causing confusion, then the two ships were alongside each other.

A few brave men jumped across the gap, landing among the crew. They lashed out with sword and axe, and the few blows the frightened merchants were bale to return were blunted by the Ironborn's leather or steel armor. No other folk wore armor at sea but the Ironborn, and in that they had the advantage. The archers put away their bows and took up axe and sword.

The rest of the crew hauled at the grappling lines, and the two ships bumped against each other. With that, Aeron led the rest of his crew in swarming over the side, and in few minutes it was all over. The Lyseni could not stand up against the ferocity of the Ironborn.

As the reavers stormed their way belowdecks and slew the wounded merchants, Aeron stood in the middle of the main deck.

"Take everything you can, lads, and then sink her!"

A cheer followed his orders, and shouts rang out from below deck, announcing the discovery of wines and fabrics in the ship's hold.

Aeron took a scroll out of his bag, along with a lump of charcoal, and crossed out the _Trumpeteer_ 's name from the list. One down.


	18. Maron III

Maron III

Maron stood at Ser Davos' side and watched the _Sea Song_ lower her gangplank. Once, about four years ago, he had stood on this same beach with his father and waited for Lord Stannis to arrive. Now he was the one waiting for Greyjoy visitors.

Aside from Lord Stannis and Ser Davos, the serving girl Matrice also stood on the beach, Jocelyn Waters swaddled and held close to her breast.

Maron's nuncle Rodrik strode down the gangplank, followed by his son Kenned, and approached Stannis. Nuncle Rodrik had visited before, to trade and to bring Maron news of the Iron Isles, and once to bring Lord Stannis father's offer to foster Jocelyn Waters.

And now Rodrik was here to fulfill that agreement.

Maron had not been in the Small Council chamber when Lord Stannis confronted the King about it, but the King had evidently acknowledged the bastard. Lord Stannis had wanted his brother's baseborn get out of his sight as soon as possible, and when Rodrik had arrived with father's offer Lord Stannis had practically jumped at it. That Jon Arryn had assented as well only sealed the deal.

Rodrik bowed before Lord Stannis.

"My lord. How is your son?"

Lord Stannis seemed surprised at being spoken to.

"Steffon? A healthy babe. Have you come to take the bastard?"

Rodrik seemed amused by Lord Stannis' brusqueness.

"Indeed," he said, as he walked over to Matrice, studying her face, "You are the mother?"

"Yes, m'lord," she muttered, "Jocelyn's a nice girl, I'm thankful for your hospitality."

Rodrik nodded.

"You are most welcome. Jocelyn will be well at home on Pyke, I hope. Kenned, take the girl to the ship."

"This way, milady," Kenned said softly, bowing to Matrice. The serving girl was shocked at being addressed with such courtesy; Lord Stannis had been less than warm to her these past two years. She mumbled her thanks and followed him to the ship.

Lord Stannis, not one for pleasantries, thanked Rodrik Harlaw for his time and turned to make his way back to Dragonstone. Ser Davos looked down at Maron and smiled.

"I'll give you a moment with your uncle," he said. Maron nodded and looked up at Rodrik Harlaw as Ser Davos strode off after Lord Stannis.

"How are things back on the islands?" Maron asked. Nuncle Rodrik shrugged.

"Quiet, for the most part. The rebuilding continues. Rodrik and Asha may be betrothed soon."

Maron nodded.

"Give my regards to them, and father as well," he said, "And Theon as well," he added after a moment.

Rodrik raised an eyebrow.

"Have you nothing to say about your father's conversion?"

Maron shifted his feet uncomfortably. He had spent quite a few years now in Lord Stannis' household, and while the Lord of Dragonstone could never be called religious, his wife was, and Ser Davos and Ser Rolland Storm prayed to the Seven often.

There were no temples to the Drowned God, and no Drowned Men on Dragonstone to preach to Maron. Sometimes when he watched the waves crash against the cliffs of Dragonstone or sailed a ship around the island he would think of the Drowned God's halls, but more often he found himself thinking of the Seven, the Warrior when he sparred with Allard and Matthos in the yard, the Maiden when he turned his thoughts towards his future bride, the Father when Stannis scolded him for some jape.

He did not think of the Stranger often, nor did he think of going to the Drowned God's halls. Young lads in the prime of their lives did not think of such things.

"Men worship the gods as they will," he said proudly. Nuncle Rodrik chuckled and placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Your father will be pleased to know he has such a son as you," he said.


	19. Quellon IX

Quellon IX

Tywin Lannister's eyes were green and flecked with gold, and they stared at Quellon intently.

"You understand House Lannister has already given substantial loans to the Crown?" the Lord of Casterly Rock asked. Quellon nodded brusquely.

"Yes. In fact, the Crown is helping us pay off some of our own debts to the Iron Bank...but of course it would be a great help if House Lannister could send some of their substantial gold our way," he replied. Tywin Lannister glanced at his desk, inlaid with gold. Everything in Casterly Rock had some manner of gold on it, down to the chamberpots. It would have been enough to send most Ironborn into a fit.

"And you intend to use this gold for...what, exactly?" Tywin asked. Quellon flinched inwardly. He already knew the direction this conversation would take.

"We are currently constructing an Iron Fleet, one hundred of the first galleys ever seen in the Iron Islands. In addition, we are arming two hundred armored men-at-arms in full plate, armed with sword, shield, axe, and halberd," he said. He hoped the full disclosure of his plans would be disarming. It wasn't as if the Iron Fleet and Company were a secret project...but to dodge the question would seem dishonest.

"Well," Tywin began, "Last time Ironborn ships were seen in the Westerlands, they were raiding Faircastle during my father's reign."

 _You can't blame me for that_ , he thought indignantly, _The Westerlands were so weak, there was nothing I could do to restrain the Ironborn! Not to mention sending a strongly worded letter was frankly ridiculous..._

"Well, the Westerlands are much stronger now," Quellon said, appealing to Tywin's pride, "And besides, our sights are set beyond the Seven Kingdoms. The Iron Islands are leal servants of King Robert."

Tywin turned over a few scrolls and set his hand on a thin, leather-bound book. He glanced up at Quellon briefly.

"You already hired quite a few smiths from Lannisport a few years back, and your ships are a common sight in Lannisport these days. What need do you have of more gold?"

"The recent fighting has set our schedule back more than anticipated. We need to replace the lost ships and materials if we are to see a return on our...previous investments to the Iron Bank..."

Quellon trailed off as Tywin opened the book. He glanced at the page, then back to Quellon.

"And you say you want to seal this with an alliance?"

"Of course. The Lannisters always pay their debts, as the saying goes, and the smallfolk of the Iron Islands say we Greyjoys can turn iron to gold. This is, simply put, a way to enrich both our houses."

"How do you propose to seal this alliance?" Tywin asked bluntly.

"My son Rodrik is unmarried, and is now seventeen. I also understand you have a son, Tyrion, who is the same age..."

Quellon broke off suddenly as Tywin fixed him with a glare.

 _I shouldn't have mentioned the Imp_ , he thought. Tywin was silent for a moment, then spoke.

"I have a relative, Lanna Lannister. She is the granddaughter of my late wife's cousin. I had meant to marry her to one of my bannermen, but perhaps she could make a good match for your son, Rodrik."

Quellon thought for a moment. One the one hand, Lanna was a distant enough relation that the Greyjoys wouldn't be able to exert any major control in Casterly Rock. This was Tywin's way of keeping them at arm's length. On the other hand, this was a minor enough offer that Quellon could save face by rejecting it. Perhaps this was Tywin's way of diplomatically refusing the Greyjoy's offer of an alliance.

"I believe I shall have to give your offer some thought, Lord Tywin," Quellon said, rising. He bowed, and Tywin gestured towards the door.

"My brother Gerion will escort you to your chambers, Lord Balon," he said, almost dismissively. Outside Tywin's chambers, Quellon found Gerion Lannister. The boisterous younger brother of Tywin Lannister leaned towards Quellon curiously.

"Do you think you'll take up his offer?" Gerion asked. Quellon shrugged.

"I don't believe so. Unfortunately, it seems Tywin does not desire an alliance at this time," he said, hiding the bitterness in his voice. Gaining the Lannisters as allies could have served to make the Greyjoys almost unassailable allies of the Crown.

"Don't take it personally," Gerion said, "Tywin's always been prickly when it comes to marrying off his family. It's a shame, I had hoped to visit your Iron Islands myself."

"Well, Ser Gerion, I still extend my offer of friendship to you. I'm sure you would enjoy a voyage with my goodbrother Rodrik Harlaw, or my brother Aeron."

Gerion ran a finger through his beard.

"Well, I had planned to take a voyage to Essos later this year...but I think I'll take you up on that offer!"

He extended his hand.

 _Well, if I can't gain Tywin as an ally, perhaps his younger brother will have to do_.

He shook Gerion Lannister's hand.


	20. Maron IV

Maron IV

The dining room on Dragonstone was silent save for the crackling of the great hearth fire. It was usually silent, as Lord Stannis preferred to eat his dinner without the distraction of small talk. Lady Bethany would sometimes ask a question, and Lord Stannis would answer succinctly, but never unkindly.

Their relationship was not warm - Maron did not think Stannis could ever show warmth towards anyone - but he did his duty as her husband, in his own way.

On Dragonstone, Lord Stannis was the iron fist, but Lady Bethany was the silken glove. She tried to show concern for even the lowest scullery maid. Which had led to some tension over Matrice and her daughter.

"Was it really necessary to send them away from Dragonstone entirely?" Lady Bethany had asked the day after Rodrik Harlaw had departed Dragonstone.

"The bastard was a slight on my honor. Robert fathered her in our own wedding bed. I will not permit such an insult to remain in my sight," Lord Stannis had said, glowering.

Lady Bethany had rolled her eyes at that.

"Have you ever considered that maybe King Robert just never stops to think about the consequences of his actions? I highly doubt he took Matrice to bed with the intention of fathering a bastard."

Lord Stannis had ground his teeth, but had said no more. Perhaps he had conceded the point.

But that had been several weeks ago. Nuncle Rodrik was long gone, and life at Dragonstone had returned to its steady monotony. Lady Bethany was the first to break the silence, turning to Ser Davos.

"Ser Davos, how is your son Dale? He's married Brella Blackberry, correct?"

The knight looked from Lord Stannis to Lady Bethany and nodded.

"Aye, my lady, as I understand they're quite happy, and with a child on the way."

"That is good to hear, Ser Seaworth. Send the couple my regards, next time you see them."

"Thank you, my lady."

Next, Lady Bethany looked to Maron.

"Young Maron, I received a letter from your father today. His overtures to my brother have been rejected, and he hoped I could convince him to change his mind."

"Overtures?" Maron asked, confused as to why Lady Bethany would bring this to his attention.

"Your father offered an alliance, and my brother rejected him. It's not difficult to understand why, of course. The Hoare kings conquered the Arbor before the dragon lords came, and a Blacktyde King once sacked the island and carried off every maiden under thirty. The Redwynes and Ironborn have bad blood between them."

Maron shrugged.

"Lord Blacktyde is a follower of the Seven now, and his uncle is a knight," he said lamely. She hadn't spoken in an accusatory tone, but Maron still felt awkward at having the darker parts of Ironborn history addressed so bluntly.

"Really?" she replied, intrigued, then shrugged, "Either way, my brother never knew when to let old grudges lie. I don't think I'd be able to change his mind, unfortunately."

"Lord Redwyne was never a man to forget old grudges," Lord Stannis grumbled. Maron thought that humorous, given Lord Stannis had never forgiven Paxter Redwyne for his insult against Ser Davos. Lady Bethany put her plate aside and placed a hand on Stannis' arm.

"Forget my brother's stubbornness, Stannis," she said, her eyes shining. Stannis' expression softened; not a smile, but close enough.

Maron ignored the otherwise tender moment and chewed his mutton. His last letter from his father had said Lord Tywin had rejected his overtures as well. Yes, Ser Gerion had come to visit Pyke, an entertaining event no doubt, but that meant little for House Greyjoy's standing.

Now, with the Redwynes also turning their backs to the Greyjoys, where would father go?


	21. Quellon X

Quellon X

Bear Island was cold. The waves crashed against the stony shores, the wind whistled through the evergreen trees, and the hearthfire roared in Mormont Keep.

Quellon idly wondered if the Ironborn who conquered Bear Island were reminded of their home isles as he was. His eyes flicked around the room. Jorah Mormont sat in the high chair at the head of the hall, his aunt Maege Mormont at his side. Her two oldest daughters sat with them too; Dacey with her long features, elegant even in mail, and short muscular Alysane. Either one would have made a good match for his son Rodrik.

"Loron Greyjoy conquered Bear Isle from the Woodfoots," Jorah Mormont said gruffly, "And Rodrik Stark took it back and gave it to the first Mormonts. And now another Greyjoy comes in peace to Bear Isle."

Quellon sighed wearily. Everywhere he went, it was the same. The Ironborn had raped and reaved from the Arbor to Bear Isle, and had even planted their banners on the shores of the Narrow Sea. Was no folk as widely hated as the Ironborn? He fought down his first, indignant response, and spoke softly.

"Yes, I come in peace. Let us make an end to the bad blood between us. The Ironborn can bring gold and grain to Bear Isle instead of fire and sword, and leave with timber instead of salt wives. The Ironborn are changing, and many stand to benefit from it."

Maege scoffed, but Jorah looked into the fire, thinking deeply.

"Once or twice Ironborn have put in at Bear Isle, to take on water and supplies. They were trading with the wildlings, dragonglass, amber, and furs for steel and silk."

Quellon said nothing. Yes, the Ironborn sometimes came this far north to trade. He had hoped they would not be so bold as to give steel to the wildlings - but, then, even in trade the Ironborn could not be restrained.

"The first time, we hid behind our walls and showed them only spears and shields. The second time, they left their goods before our gate and returned to their ship. We took the goods and placed casks of water and grain in their place. The third, we met face-to-face."

Quellon took a sip of the Arbor red he had brought to share with the Mormonts. Lord Jorah looked at Quellon's face.

"Lord Balon, I do not believe this to be some ploy. Perhaps the Ironborn really can change. If this is true, what would Bear Isle stand to gain?"

"Gold, grain, steel, silk...anything we could bring in our ships, Lord Mormont. In return, we would take lumber, maybe furs. And, of course, an alliance. The Manderlys stand at our side, and we hope to treat directly with Lord Stark in the future," Quellon replied, smiling. At last, some progress.

Jorah Mormont nodded and looked at his aunt.

"Maege?"

No doubt he knew an alliance meant a marriage, and it would be Maege's daughters going south to their new husband.

 _What a world we live in, where we must exchange our children as currency_.

The Old She-Bear spat into the fire.

"I've heard tell that on the Iron Islands you have warrior women of your own. That's good; you won't be getting a bashful maid in silk."

Dacey smiled, no doubt amused.

"Still, I see no reason why I should send one of my daughters off to the Iron Islands without insurance."

Quellon nodded.

"Prudent, Lady Maege. Perhaps if I sent my son Rodrik here? He could bring trade goods, and meet your daughters face-to-face before the betrothal."

Maege nodded and looked at Jorah.

"I could agree to that," she said. Jorah stood, offering his hand.

"In that case, Lord Balon, we have a deal."

 _At last_ , Quellon thought, _We can put old grudges behind us_. They shook hands.


	22. Asha II

Asha II

The dinner was going terribly. It wasn't completely Patrek Mallister's fault - he was a fine looking lad, but Asha had pegged him as the same stock as many of the Ironborn back home, the kind who thought with their balls and only had an interest in girls when they were trying to get them on their backs. Even now he was more focused on flirting with serving girls than talking to Asha.

However, Asha hadn't helped matters. For one, she had refused to wear a silken gown, preferring a black velvet-lined doublet with the kraken of House Greyjoy picked out in gold thread. Patrek almost hadn't recognized her as the daughter of a Lord Paramount.

Then, during the dinner, instead of speaking with courtesy and grace "As a lady should," she had traded barbs with Patrek and the other highborn members of Jason Mallister's household. The Lord of Seagard was unimpressed. Right now he was deep in conversation with her father at the far end of the table, no doubt haggling over some finer point of the trade deal.

"Lady Asha."

Asha looked up and saw Edmure Tully standing over her. The young heir to Riverrun had been at Seagard on business when Asha and her father had arrived to treat with Lord Mallister.

Asha grinned up at him and pulled out a chair.

"Ser Edmure. Please, have a seat. Have you had this mead? They make it on Pyke."

Edmure stroked his red mustache with a finger as Asha filled a goblet for him.

"Really? Well, then, I suppose I could sample it."

He sat next to Asha, took the goblet from her, and took a sip. Asha laughed and waved her hand, urging him on.

"No, don't sip it like an Arbor gold! Chug it!"

Edmure, smiling, threw back his head and swallowed the whole goblet. He slammed the goblet on the table and took a deep breath.

"Strong stuff! And you drink this normally?"

Asha nodded, refilling her own goblet.

"There's not much else on the Iron Islands. Grapes can't grow there, and we need the barley for bread. Bees, though, they come in plenty."

She took a deep drink of mead and watched Edmure. He was handsome, stocky, with a fierce auburn beard. Asha nodded towards Lord Jason Mallister.

"You know him. Do you think he'll agree to my father's offer?"

Edmure rolled his eyes.

"Spare me. Seagard was _built_ to keep out the Ironborn!" he said, in a passable imitation of Lord Mallister's voice. Asha couldn't help but laugh.

"Still," she said, "Lorgon Greyjoy had a great and tragic friendship with Ser Desmond Mallister. Maybe we should have had a bard sing the song, to put Lord Mallister in the right mood."

"I've...never got along with singers, I'm afraid," Edmure said quickly, followed by another swallow of mead. Asha shrugged.

"It probably wouldn't have worked anyway. Patrek seems more interested in that serving girl than me," she said, half-bitterly. As she spoke, Patrek had pulled the serving girl in question into his lap and was whispering in her ear.

"His mistake. I've never met a girl like you in the Riverlands," Edmure said with a smile. Asha raised her goblet.

"I will take that as a compliment, Ser."

"It was meant as one!" Edmure replied, raising his own goblet. As they clinked together, Asha gave him her sweetest smile.

 _He's sweet, and handsome, if not very bright_ , she thought, _But perhaps there's something here_...

"Lady Asha, have you ever been hawking? The game around Seagard is excellent."

Asha glanced at the head of the table. Her father and Lord Mallister seemed to be deep in some disagreement over the price of iron.

"No, I haven't been hawking before. Perhaps you could...show me around?"


	23. Asha III

Asha III

Hoster Tully was livid.

"I will not have my son disgrace a highborn lady like this!" he yelled, bringing his fist down on the table. Edmure flinched, looking at Asha and her father with fear. Personally, Asha didn't think it was as bad as her father made it out to be, but she knew when to keep quiet.

Her father Balon, though, nodded sagely.

"Indeed, I was most disappointed when I heard the news."

Asha shifted uncomfortably. Yes, they had gone for a short ride through the country, followed by a quick tumble in a grassy field, but Asha had expected that to be it. She would return to the Iron Islands and hear no more from Edmure Tully.

But somehow her father had found out, maybe he guessed, maybe someone had followed them, and before Asha knew it Hoster Tully was at Seagard, mercilessly haranguing his son.

"But...the Mallisters..." Edmure began nervously. Balon gave him a soothing hand motion.

"No formal agreement was made, there is no stain on their honor," he said. Hoster Tully nodded, giving his son another angry glare. Asha guessed that, like her, Edmure very much wanted something to drink.

"Lord Balon, the person who has been dishonored here is your daughter-"

He was caught off suddenly as Asha coughed fiercely into her hand, masking her laughter. Her honor? She had lost her maidenhead years ago! And it hadn't been Edmure's first time either, that she could tell.

"...What can we do to make this right?" Hoster continued, casting a curious glance at Asha and Edmure. Balon stroked his chin.

"Hmm. Well, the best thing to do is to have them marry. Then she will bear no bastard children, and her honor will be intact."

Asha wanted to laugh again, but Edmure looked horrified.

"Father, no!"

Hoster glared at his son, silencing him, then back at Balon.

"Well, if that is what must be done...Edmure, you must face the consequences of your actions. You cannot leave a Lord Paramount's daughter like this, with a possible bastard in her belly."

Edmure opened his mouth to say something, looked at Asha, then shut it. Asha suddenly realized what was happening. She looked at Edmure in a new light, now.

 _Edmure isn't a bad man...he's sweet, if not very bright. A woman could do worse_. She sighed, and spoke up.

"Father, if this is how it must be, then I suppose I cannot protest."

Edmure's face fell even further, if that was at all possible. Her father nodded, and looked at Hoster.

"Then, I suppose the deal is done, Balon."

"Father, at least give me a moment with my betrothed," she said, before either of them could say anything further. The two lords exchanged looks, then nodded and left the room. Edmure sighed and looked at Asha.

"Lady Asha, I am so sorry-"

"Oh, don't bother. I'm just as inconvenienced as you are."

"Inconvenience? But - your honor -"

"Oh, please, I'm no maiden. Did I not make that clear yesterday?"

Edmure blushed, but focused his gaze on the table. Asha stood up and looked around the room for something to drink. She saw a pitcher of wine on a side table, and made directly for it.

"Look, Edmure. I think it's obvious what's just happened. Your father saw an opportunity, and he took it."

"What?" Edmure asked, confused. Asha poured two goblets of wine and carried them to the table.

"I think both our fathers are well aware our little romp was nothing to worry about. However, if we get married, we could make a very powerful alliance. The Greyjoys are rich and getting richer, and the Tullys have plentiful rivers, that's good for trade."

"But...that talk of honor-"

"A mummer's farce, so our fathers' could save face. Did you see them as they left? They looked very pleased with what just happened."

Of course, Asha didn't mention the conclusion she had come to: Hoster was an ambitious man, no stranger to using his children as bargaining chips, if his daughters were any indication. And her own father, Asha had realized, was much in the same vein.

Asha sat down next to Edmure and offered him a goblet.

"Edmure, you're a good man. I think we could be good together, and it would help both our families. Provided, of course, you recognize a few things about me."

Edmure took the goblet from her

"What do you mean?"

Asha smiled.

"First of all, I'm no lady. I can wield an axe and captain a longship as good as any man. I go where I wish, and I want a husband, not a master."

Edmure looked at her. He was no doubt weighing his choices. He couldn't very well refuse, and she didn't think he would try and lock her in a tower like some greenlander maid.

"Well...you're an Ironborn, that's for sure," he said smiling, "And I can't say it would be unpleasant having you as a wife."

Asha laughed, and clinked her goblet against his. They both drank deeply, then lowered their goblets and looked at each other. Asha reached out and took his hand.

 _I think I can say the same of having you as a husband_ , she thought.


	24. Quellon XI

Quellon XI

Quellon had not set foot in the Red Keep in many years. The last time was a brief trip to swear flaty to the newly crowned King Robert. He adjusted his silk and velvet doublet and stared down the guard at the door to the throne room.

"It is time," the guard said bluntly as he opened the doors.

He turned and gave Rodrik Harlaw a nervous glance.

"All will be well, Balon," his goodbrother/goodson said reassuringly. Quellon nodded and strode forward, Rodrik at his side, both carrying large bundles under their arms. Ser Harras followed, one hand on the hilt of his Valyrian steel sword Nightfall.

"The Lord Paramount Balon Greyjoy, his goodbrother Rodrik Harlaw, Lord of Ten Towers, and Ser Harras Harlaw, Knight of Grey Garden!" the herald called.

Quellon's eyes darted around the room. Aside from lesser lords and ladies beyond count, he saw the king's brothers Renly and Stannis, the latter of whom gave Quellon a curt nod. Sitting behind a long table were the Hand of the King Jon Arryn, the Eunuch Varys, and Petyr Baelish, the Master of Coin who Aeron had done some business with.

 _We have friends in the hall_ , Quellon thought, pleased, _But Jon Arryn will be the one to convince_.

And, of course, sitting atop the massive piece of ironmongery that men called the Iron Throne was the Ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, Robert Baratheon himself. Muscled and towering, with a flowing black beard, he was an imposing presence despite the fact that he slouched in the throne, a bored look on his face.

"Your Grace," Quellon began, bowing, "I have come before you with a proposition."

Robert Baratheon's eyes flicked from the floor up to Quellon's face. Jon Arryn put down his quill and leaned forwards.

"Speak," the king said curtly. Quellon nodded.

"As I am sure you know, House Greyjoy has been building up our fleet. We now have one hundred galleys, crewed by men from all across the Iron Islands, and in addition we are now able to field a standing force of two hundred armored footmen, a hundred longbowmen, and a hundred light infantry in what we call the Iron Company."

Robert looked at Varys briefly, then back to Quellon.

"Aye. What of it?"

"Well, your Grace, we intend to _use_ this army. We propose a joint military expedition, with the explicit approval of the Iron Throne, to seize the Stepstones in the name of King Robert Baratheon. This would allow the Seven Kingdoms to not only remove a great threat in the form of the many pirates that lurk there, but also a new source of revenue in the form of taxes on passing vessels."

He held his breath, waiting for Robert's response. The king leaned forward in his seat, hands gripping the arms of the Iron Throne tightly.

"Jon...can we do that?" he asked quietly. Jon Arryn set down his quill and folded his hands.

"I am not sure what you mean. If you are asking if it is feasible...then yes, possibly, provided the funds can be secured-"

"This venture will more than pay for itself," Petyr Baelish said quickly, and Lord Stannis spoke up as well.

"I believe this to be possible militarily, Your Grace. We have the numbers and the discipline to handle a few...pirates."

Jon Arryn glanced back at the king.

"If you are asking what the greater repercussions will be...well, some of the Free Cities will need reassuring that we will not overtax them, but I'm sure they can be convinced of our good intentions in the short term," he mused. All eyes in the room turned to the king.

After a brief, tense moment, Robert smiled. Then guffawed. Then, he began to laugh, a merry sound that echoed off the pillars and rafters of the throne room.

"Ah, gods bless you, Greyjoy! All these years this uncomfortable throne has been a _literal_ pain in my ass, and I've been yearning for a good fight. Now you come with this idea on a silver platter! I'll approve it, by the gods! I'll do more than approve it, I'll _join_ it! Me and any other young buck who wants to spill some pirate blood!"

Quellon smiled nervously as a murmur ran through the crowd of gathered courtiers.

"Thank you, your Grace!"

"Your Grace, I think this still bears some consideration-" Jon Arryn began with some nervousness, but Robert cut him off.

"Nonsense, Jon, if Lord Greyjoy wants to oblige us, we will gladly take up his offer!"

Jon Arryn sighed and looked at Quellon with what he thought was resignation.

"Very well, then. Your proposal is...approved, Lord Greyjoy."

Quellon gestured at the bundle under his arm.

"My Lord Hand, we have details that may interest you. Troop numbers, a plan of attack, and other such figures. Perhaps we should discuss them?"

"Very good, Lord Greyjoy. Robert, I think it best we adjourn the court for today and discuss this in the Small Hall," Jon Arryn said softly. Robert, though, was still grinning eagerly.

"Haha, Ser Aron, break out my warhammer and see that my armor still fits! We are going to war!"


	25. Maron V

Maron V

The camp sprawled across the tourney grounds outside of King's Landing and up both sides of the Blackwater. Ships were thick on the harbor, and the sights and sounds of the war camp filled the air. Horses, leather, and campfires mixed with the shit and sweat and woodsmoke from King's Landing. King Robert had put out the call for volunteers to join the expedition to the Stepstones, and the chivalry of the Seven Kingdoms had answered in force. Everywhere, knights, squires, war horses, men-at-arms, serjeants, sailors, and foot soldiers were moving from the camps to the riverbank and back again, carrying supplies, herding horses and cattle, sometimes drilling in formation. Maron could see the badges of great Houses like Baratheon, Manderly, Tully, Mormont, and Lannister, lesser houses such as Bar Emmon, Sunglass, Celtigar, and Velaryon, and a thousand petty lords and hedge knights. Maron had never seen such a collection of men and beasts in all his life.

"A mess," Stannis growled at the spectacle.

Maron frowned and spurred his horse forward, keeping pace with Stannis. Together with Ser Davos, the Lord of Dragonstone and his ward rode through the camp, fresh from taking stock of the army.

"How many men are there, my lord?" Ser Davos asked. Stannis reigned his horse to a halt and looked at Maron.

"Well, lad? Have you been paying attention?"

Maron furrowed his brow and thought.

"Er...you brought 5,000 men, and 150 ships. The Royal Fleet has another 100 ships, and House Manderly brought 10 warships, twice as many cogs stuffed with provisions, 100 knights, and 1,000 infantry.

Gerion Lannister's brought 200 knights, Edmure Tully's promised another 100 knights and mounted men-at-arms, and then there's the 1,000...assorted cavalry."

The 1,000 cavalry was a collection of knights and freeriders from all across the south, young men eager to earn glory alongside King Robert. Some of the men among them were well-known in the Seven Kingdoms, including the newly knighted Renly Baratheon, the King's brother Some, like Lord Jorah Mormont of Bear Isle, had come from as far away as Bear Isle in the North, while others like the red priest Thoros of Myr had always been at King's Landing.

"But the Iron Islands can field 500 ships, in addition to the Iron Fleet," Maron added with a touch of pride. Stannis scowled and turned to Ser Davos.

"You see? Almost 1,500 cavalry, over 5,500 infantry, and 850 ships all told! For _pirates_."

"Well, my lord, the Ironborn are to come at the Stepstones from the south. So it will not be so large an army that takes on water at Tarth," the knight replied. Tarth was to be the last stop for the fleet and expeditionary army before the battles began, and it was there Robert intended to hold a council of war with Maron's father.

"But _look_ at this! Who's in charge? _Robert_!?" he snapped, in a tone that suggested Robert wasn't fit to be in charge of a whorehouse, "Manderly's men only listen to Ser Wendel, Tully's men to Tully, Lannister's to Ser Gerion. Then there's the thousand or so hothead young green boys that are here for the _glory_. At least as Master of Ships I have control of the navy, but the land force? A mess."

"Jon Arryn's role as Warden of the East places him in high command," Maron pointed out, but as Stannis turned to face him he realized his error.

"Yes, but Jon Arryn is in the Free Cities, buying us time to do this without repercussions. Myr, Tyrosh, and Lys must need to be convinced of our good intentions. As for the rest of these men, so long as they're on ships discipline will be kept, but once they set foot on dry land every man will want glory for himself first and foremost."

And further fuming on Stannis' part was cut off by the blast of a trumpet and a clatter of hooves. King Robert arrived in a swirl of dust and silk, his banner flapping above him and his little knot of Kingsguard and sycophants.

"Stannis! Look at all this!" the king roared excitedly. He rode over to Stannis and clapped a hand on his shoulder.

"Doesn't the sight of this army get your blood pumping!? I haven't seen this many men since the Rebellion!"

While Stannis ground his teeth and listened to King Robert wax poetic about the old days, Maron could not help but look at Robert's Kingsguard. Ser Jaime Lannister and Ser Barristan Selmy were skilled and famed warriors, and would no doubt do well in war, but others like Mandon Moore, Preston Greenfield, and Meryn Trant had not particularly distinguished themselves. Boros Blount was hardly worthy of going to war - he had been given the dubious honor of guarding the pregnant queen.

Still, the Kingsguard was a dangerous position. Maron knew that if an opening appeared, he intended to put forward one of the Iron Island's few knights as a replacement. It seemed cold to almost be expecting one the Kingsguard to die, but Maron's father was hard, the same as any Iron Islander.

Any further thoughts on the matter were cut off by Robert's booming voice.

"Now, Stannis, come! Let's get this army moving! I want to spill some pirate blood!"


	26. Asha IV

Asha IV

Asha and Edmure had specifically chosen a landing spot a good distance away from the sprawling main camp. The Expeditionary Force was taking on water at Tarth while the commanders discussed strategy, and that meant Evenfall Hall and the lands surrounding it were thick with men and horses. Many of the knights that had come along were less than pleased at the rough treatment some of their precious war horses had received, so tempers were high.

 _Black Wind_ was beached on a relatively quiet stretch of shore, alongside the _Seaswift_ , the Royal vessel that had been given over to transport the heir to Riverrun and his men. Those same men now wandered around, drinking, tending to their horses, and trading barbs with Asha's crew, who likewise we pitching tents and breaking into the rations of mead.

"Your crew are...rough-mannered," Edmure said to her carefully. Asha laughed as she watched Rook try and teach Marq Piper how to throw a hand axe.

"They're a pack of fools. But they're my fools. And your friends are hardly better."

Asha had met Edmure's friends when they had mustered at Riverrun: Marq Piper, Karl Vance, Patrek Mallister, Lucos Blackwood, and few others whose names she hadn't quite learned yet. She thought them a pack of hotheaded young idiots thirsty for glory, but she had to admit they got along swimmingly with Edmure Tully.

Then her own crew had arrived, portaging the _Black Wind_ to the Trident after landing at Seagard. Her own crew were more rough around the edges than the cultured Riverlordlings, but they shared a love of drinking, fighting, and wenching. They had even formed a sort of friendly rivalry, often in the form of drinking contests.

Edmure was about to reply to Asha when the sound of hoofbeats reached them from further up the camp. A dark-haired youth in a gold-and-black doublet arrived on a horse, and for a moment Asha did not recognize her brother Maron.

"Hello, little sister!" he shouted, then reined his horse to a stop and smiled at Edmure, "And hello to you, goodbrother. How's the trout taking to the open seas?"

Asha laughed and crossed her arms.

"Maron? It's been, what, a few years? You didn't even come to my wedding," she said, a hurt look on her face.

"Sorry, little sister, there were smugglers to hang on Skagos," he said, and Asha laughed.

He dropped his smile and looked at Edmure.

"You're wanted up at Evenfall Hall. Father's there, and the King."

Edmure nodded and called for horses, and leaving Lucos Blackwood in charge, the three rode for Evenfall Hall. They passed through the main war camp, thick with knights, freeriders, men-at-arms, and common infantry, mainly Manderly soldiers with pike, spear, and trident.

"Maron, aren't you to be married?" Edmure asked, "A granddaughter of Lord Wyman, I'm told."

Maron's face turned red.

"Aye, Wynafyrd is her name, I'm told. She's to be of age soon."

"So you haven't met her?" Edmure asked. Asha winked at him, and he nodded.

"Aye, they say she is fair..."

"But she may take after her father. One never knows with these things," Edmure said teasingly. Maron coughed and kicked his horse up to a trot.

Once admitted to the gates of Evenfall Hall, the noise and smells of the camp faded. Here the high lords were quartered, along with the king.

What immediately drew Edmure and Maron's attention was the duel going on in the courtyard. Ser Renly Baratheon was sparring with Jaime Lannister the Kingslayer. Both wore gleaming plate and were going at each other with flashing longswords, but it was not the two men that drew Asha's attention.

Rather, she was fixated on a young maid standing quietly in a corner of the courtyard, dressed not in a dress but in leathers and mail. She was watching the duel with a trained eye, but stayed half-hidden behind a pillar, as if she wanted to avoid all attention.

While Maron and Edmure cheered on the sparring knights, Asha slipped behind the crowd of knights and servants observing the duel and approached the young maid. What stuck Asha the most was her appearance - the girl was ugly, plain as day, tall and muscular despite appearing to be a young girl, flat-chested, with coarse features and crooked teeth.

 _Her eyes are nice, though_ , Asha thought. She stood in front of the girl and looked her in the eye.

"Greetings. I am Asha Greyjoy, wife of Ser Edmure Tully,"

The girl seemed shocked at being addressed. She took a step back and stammered out a response.

"Greetings, m-my lady. I am Brienne, my f-father is Lord Selwyn."

Asha raised an eyebrow and gestured to Brienne's garb.

"And why is the daughter of Lord Selwyn dressed for war?"

Brienne looked at her suspiciously.

"I...want to be a knight. I always have, my lady."

Asha blinked in surprise.

"I'm sorry to say this, but I don't think the greenlanders will let you. How old are you, girl?"

To Brienne's credit, her face hardened.

"Two and ten. And I _will_ be a knight, I'll uphold the vows and everything!"

Asha couldn't help but chuckle good-naturedly.

"You've got fire. You'd get along great with my goodsister Dacey Mormont."

Behind Asha, the Kingslayer had tripped Renly Baratheon, putting him flat on his back. The crowd let out a mixture of cheers and disappointed groans, and gold and small trinkets began to change hands.

"You...are not mocking me, my lady?" Brienne asked. Asha smiled and shook her head.

"No. I know what it's like to be in your shoes. You'll always have to be twice as good to get half the respect. But you'll get it, in the end. At least, that's how it is on the Iron Islands and in the North. These greenlanders are another sort entirely."

She turned to look at the courtyard. The knights and servants were moving off one by one, and Edmure and Maron waited expectantly by the doors to Evenfall Hall's main keep.

"Perhaps we can talk more, my lady," Brienne said. Asha smiled and nodded.

"Aye, perhaps."

Finally, Asha found herself in Evenfall Hall's war room. A great table, with a map of the Stepstones laid across it, took up the center of the room. King Robert Baratheon, in armor and with a warhammer slung across his shoulders, stood at the head of the table, with his brother Stannis, Ser Barristan Selmy, and Asha's father. The Iron Fleet was still taking on water at Sunspear, but Balon had sailed around the Arm of Dorne, landed at the Weeping Town, and ridden for Storm's End to take a ship to Tarth for this council of war.

"Father!" she cried, and dashed forward to embrace him. Balon chuckled and ruffled her hair.

"It's good to see you, daughter. And you too, Edmure."

"Likewise, goodfather," Edmure said politely, then waited while the rest of the attendees trickled in. Maron took his place at Stannis' shoulder with the one men called the Onion Knight. Renly Baratheon arrived, nursing a sore shoulder and ignoring the Kingslayer's japes, while Ser Wylis arrive, half a pastry in one hand and crumbs in his mustache. Gerion Lannister followed his nephew in, both clad in gilt armor. The last to arrive was Selwyn Tarth, who was present purely by dint of it being his hall.

With that, the debate began. Asha did not contribute, rather watching the lords and knights debate, as she did not think any of them, except perhaps her father, would want to hear her opinion. Edmure was of the same mind as her anyway: he counselled a series of coordinated attacks at the main islands to catch the pirates off guard. Others, like Robert and Ser Wylis, wished to take the islands one by one.

"That will allow the pirates to gather their forces and counterattack," her father cautioned.

"Bah! We have the greater army!" the King replied, "We'll take them all on at once!"

Balon looked to Stannis, who ground his teeth.

"Either way, we'll need to sweep the islands clean. Any who decide to flee rather than fight after our initial assault will scatter across the Narrow Sea."

"Jon Arryn's diplomatic efforts will bear fruit. The Free Cities will help to round up any strays," Gerion added. Balon, though, was unconvinced.

"Even if we have the greater army now, that is not guaranteed. Many of these pirates have relatives in the Free Cities, and they may hire mercenary companies as well."

Robert shook his head.

"A bunch of sellswords and cheesemongers. Our heavy knights can smash any rabble they can put together."

The debate continued. Who was to land on which island? How would the army be resupplied? Would the pirates offer battle? Asha said nothing, merely watching and listening.

 _The King would welcome the pirate's retaliation, while Stannis favors a decisive strike. Father recommends caution, Renly is hotheaded. Edmure sides with father, Gerion with his nephew._

In the end, the King's word was final. The Iron Fleet and the main force would both launch a surprise attack on Grey Gallows, then wait for the pirates to retaliate. They would crush the pirates on land and sea with superior numbers and discipline, then take the islands one by one, while the fleets swept the Narrow Sea clean of pirates.

Asha was unsure of the plan's chance of success, but the King had spoken. Edmure gave her a helpless look and shrugged as the commanders filed out. Asha gave him a sympathetic look, then suddenly seized on an idea.

She stopped Lord Selwyn as he was about to retire to his chambers.

"Lord Selwyn, tell me of your daughter."

Lord Selwyn looked at Asha suspiciously, but shrugged.

"Brienne has always had...martial leanings. I have tried to have her trained well, and to find her a match, but she is stubborn."

Asha nodded.

"I had wondered if you would permit her to join us. I could take her on as my...shall we say, squire."

Selwyn looked at her oddly, then glanced at Balon, then back to her.

"Hmm. I may have to think on it. She is young, and I do not want any harm to come to her, but...she has already driven away two suitors. In truth, I sometimes despair of finding any match. I will discuss this with your father, my lady. Thank you for your concern, though."

With that, Selwyn Tarth turned and left the hall.

"Squire?" Edmure asked incredulously, "That's an odd notion."

Asha turned to him with a scowl on her face.

"She may not be pretty, but I know a warrior when I see one. She'll go to waste in some greenlander's hall."

Edmure shrugged and led Asha back to the courtyard.

"You, Dacey Mormont, the Tarth girl...you Greyjoys have some odd notions about women."

"It never seems to bother you," she said slyly, pressing herself against him. He smiled and wrapped his arm around her waist.

"Well, I cannot argue with that."


	27. Rodrik II

Rodrik II

The army of the Seven Kingdoms had taken the island of Grey Gallows in a matter of days. First the twin fleets had secured the coast, sweeping over the little ports and hidden coves in a tide of steel and flame in the early hours of the dawn. The pirates were in their ruined forts and hidden caves and little shanty towns feasting and drinking, and when their ships had gone up in flames they had issued forth to give battle, but by then the marines were landing and forming up to give battle.

The pirates, undisciplined scum of the seas, were easily crushed. From there, the armies of King Robert had moved to secure the island's interior. There were villages there, inhabited by the descendants of Westerosi exiles, Free City castaways, even Rhoynar who had been stranded and cut off from Nymeria's fleet long ago. Some of these villages gave up without a fight, but in others the little village levies, stiffened with survivors of the coastal villages, had formed up to fight the invaders. Elsewhere, outlaws had begun hit-and-run attacks against King Robert's forces.

As before, discipline and skill won out, and now Rodrik Greyjoy walked across a field strewn with the bodies of the slain. Perhaps three of his own men lay dead among them, while the rest were peasant levies or pirates and sellsails. His Ironborn reavers had gone through them like a hot knife through butter.

In front of Rodrik, the victorious Ironborn were sacking the village. At his side was his wife Dacey Mormont, moving as easily in ringmail and leather as she did in silk. The hot southern sun had tanned her skin, and a lock of hair was plastered on her forehead with sweat. To Rodrik, the blood spattered across her face did nothing to diminish her beauty. The blood still thundered in his veins, and he wanted to kiss her.

"Grim work," she said, eyes moving from one corpse to the next. These villagers had probably lived here for centuries, giving up tribute to the pirate crews or joining them to bring back wealth to their families. Otherwise they herded goats and farmed little plots of land, and lived their small lives. They were a mongrel people, descended from half a hundred peoples, lawless until the day the men of the Seven Kingdoms had set foot on their shores.

"Necessary," Rodrik replied. This island was to go to his uncle Aeron, and the gold he was to make from taxing passing ships would fill House Greyjoys coffers. Dacey made no response except to grunt. Suddenly, a flash of anger crossed her face, and she broke into a trot.

"Hey, shithead! What did I say? Take what you want, but no rapes!"

An Ironborn reaver released his grip on a weeping woman's arm, gave Dacey a surly look, then saw Rodrik a short distance behind her. He spat and turned back to the village.

Dacey stood over the local woman, axe in hand. The girl had the dark skin and darker hair of the Rhoynar, and aside from a dark bruise where the reaver had grabbed her she was unharmed.

"Keep your men in hand, Rodrik," she snarled. Rodrik shrugged and glanced around.

"I've never seen a sack without rapes. There are probably dozens of villages like this one that will be sacked before the war's over. You can't stop them all."

"I can stop them here," Dacey replied darkly. Before either of them could speak, the blast of a trumpet and a clatter of hooves announced the arrival of a column of mounted men led by Jorah Mormont.

"Uncle," Dacey called. Jorah nodded and looked at Rodrik.

"We've rooted out another band of outlaws in the hills," he said, "I think this valley's secured."

Rodrik nodded and turned back to the town. The survivors of the battle were being gathered up, along with all the people of the village. Dacey helped the girl to her feet and gave her some kind words, then sent her to join the others. Jorah Mormont urged his horse forwards, joined by a herald and two banner-carriers bearing the King's sigil and that of House Mormont.

"People of this village!" the herald began in Common, "This island is now the demesne of Aeron of the House Greyjoy, and over him is Victarion Greyjoy, Lord Protector of the Stepstones, and over him is Robert Baratheon, King on the Iron Throne. You are now under the King's Peace and the King's Laws."

He repeated it in the Trade Tongue, the bastard language that seemed to be common among the merchants and pirates of the Narrow Sea. When he was done, Jorah turned to Rodrik.

"This is good. We have most of the interior of the island under control. Your father is preparing to push on to Torturer's Deep, and the pirates seem ready to give him battle."

Rodrik frowned and toyed with the haft of his axe.

"Well, then, we'll head back to the coast. But are we not leaving a garrison?"

"We are. King Robert is leaving a battalion of mounted men, to better respond in case any outlaws spring up."

Rodrik gave the village another glance. Most of the fighting men had been slain, but the townsfolk were giving the soldiers dark looks and mumuring to one another quietly. He nodded.

"Very well, then. Let's get moving."


End file.
